The Problem with Words
by Carnal Coffee Bean Catastrophe
Summary: In which Sherlock deals with a few new additions to his vocabulary and their relation to John. Dramatic one-shot that has somehow expanded into cracky, plotty fic in which Sherlock gets kidnapped. Rated T for cursing and dark themes  at times . Pre-slash.
1. Vocabulary

The flat is empty, and Sherlock is sulking.

Not an unusual happenstance, but this sulking is rather more than sulking, really. He slams cabinets, throws his lanky body viciously into furniture, viciously jabs at the remote's buttons, curls aggressively (Can one curl aggressively? Apparently so, since Sherlock is making a spectacular show of it.) into the back of the couch.

He can't get it out.

Them out, to be precise. Them, them, those hateful little words, four words, two sentences, two one-letter singular first-person pronouns as subject, two four-letter singular verbs as predicate.

I want.

I need.

He's not offended by the "I"s; it's a common occurrence for him to think of himself. In the same way all of humanity thinks of themselves first, so does he. And while it pains him to think that he is like the mean of humanity in any way, in this he must concede defeat. No, it's the verbs, those damned, despicable, disastrous, delusionary verbs that are the trouble, the root cause of this really spectacular sulk.

I want.

I need.

He's learned to master his body, he knows. It's merely transport now. He does not want food or sleep on a case; his need for such things is drastically decreased by his ignoring his body's wants. His body does what he wants it to, when he wants it to, and that is that. The words "want" and "need" have been filed in the hardest-to-reach corner of his mind, labeled in a folder marked "Other People". Other people want. Other people need. Wanting and needing is beyond Sherlock Holmes. Of course. Other people accept this. They may not understand it; how could they? They, understanding simple logic? Bah! But at least they accept it. He takes pride in not wanting, not needing. In short, Sherlock Holmes does not, will not, and cannot want or need. He has thrown this out of himself.

So, then, why is he in such a spectacular sulk?

He groans, grabs the Union Jack pillow and pulls it over his face. The words pull up to the front of his brain, taunt him, mock him with their crudeness, their inelegance, their infantile wallowing, screaming, grasping greed for more. His body has been mastered, his mind whirrs on, and still. Still he wants. Still he needs.

John.

It's all his fault, he concludes, logic hot and angry and cold and infallible, burning and freezing and choking in his throat. John with the army background and the M.D. and the alcoholic Harry and the bright smile and the willingness to do anything he says, follow him down any road he leads. John who would shoot for him, kill for him, die for him. John who is bright and warm and lovely, so lovely. John who causes this inexplicable turning of worlds inside, who causes him to change, who causes him to –

He can't say it, even in his head, though the words are still there, mocking him. So he writes it out:

I want John. I need John.

He thought the writing might get it out of his head, onto paper, where he might be able to detach from the horror inside himself at wanting, at needing, at needing and wanting _another person_, to be able to study the situation as if from afar, to find, possibly, a cure. Instead the words stare back at him, now, from two places instead of one. His brain brings the letters to the forefront, rearranges them, "JI han wt. JIe de hn.", but always switch back to the original, "I want John. I need John." In front of his eyes, the paper flutters a little in the breeze from the open window, but the letters lie motionless, black, inky, dead. "I want John. I need John." He groans, puts his head in his hands.

John, John, John.

Why?

The door slams, and he looks up. John stands there, John, John, John, John of the brightness and the smiling and the wanting and the needing, John, always John, why John? He can't answer. He doesn't know.

o.O.o

"Hey, I was thinking we could go out tonight, there's a Thai restaurant, newly opened –" John hangs his coat and turns around, sees Sherlock seated on the couch, looking, for the first time since he's known him, morose.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock slowly looks up at him. His eyes are controlled, but there's a faint hint of despair at the very back that scares John more than anything he's experienced, even in Afghanistan. He's kneeling in front of Sherlock in an instant, searching his eyes, reaching his hand out to touch him. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" A hand gently lands on Sherlock's wrist.

o.O.o

Sherlock's heart is beating very fast.

Sherlock scorns usage the word "very", even in his head. It's a useless word, so imprecise, so illogical, so unquantifiable. What, exactly, is "very"? And then, as John leans in again, brushes his hair away from his forehead, Sherlock thinks that John is very- very soft, very caring, very colorful, very bright and wonderful and lovely, very worried, and as John's hand moves down to brush his jawline, very, very, very close.

"Sherlock?"

He wants to pull away, to run, to hide within his typical self, to deride and complain and insult. He wants to lean further into the touch of hand against cheek, soft, very, very soft, slow, gentle, kind. He wants, and it scares him. Even worse (and what manner of word is "worse"? How is "worse" quantified? What does "worse" mean? His vocabulary is devolving by the moment, it appears.), on the very day, in the very hour he falls from his pedestal and admits to wanting, he finds himself caught between wants, pulled two very opposite directions. He looks up at John, helpless. John stares right back, gaze steady and strong and unquantifiably _very_ in tone. They stay like that for a moment— Sherlock, mouth hanging open a little, eyes wide and wanting and irrevocably locked on John's; John's hand on Sherlock's knee, gaze not questioning, not asking, simply giving and open and altogether very _very_.

Sherlock blinks. John blinks.

Sherlock cannot decide what his course of action should be, and since "cannot" is another word stashed in his hardest-to-reach "Other People" file, and he has almost never suffered the indignity of using any words from this file on himself, he rushes to a conclusion in order to spare himself the humiliation of yet another word being taken out of the file and used to describe him today. Before he finishes this thought, before John can back away, before Sherlock takes another breath, Sherlock decides – decides what? Decides something, anything – and launches himself at John's chest.

They sway a bit; John was unprepared for such an event, but Sherlock plants his feet (knees, really; John was already kneeling, if he wasn't, they'd have fallen over) and steadies them, head still pillowed firmly on the other man's chest. He feels John's arms wrap around him. Sherlock breathes deeply as John's hands begin to rub in wide, comforting circles on his back, and indistinct rumbly murmurs vibrate through John's chest and sound very close to Sherlock's ear. Sherlock thinks that his hasty decision is acceptable, and must be logical if it produces such agreeable results. He realizes that the words, the blasted words that have haunted his head all day, are gone, and revises his previous statement: the results are not merely agreeable, they are in fact wonderful. As he closes his eyes and nuzzles farther into John's shirtfront, Sherlock adds another very to the list of John's very characteristics:

John is very warm.

o.O.o

A/N: Hey, guys! I own nothing except a bottle of Tabasco. Definitely not BBC Sherlock, nor the characters found therein. So... yeah. I wasn't sure how to get around the small bit from John's point of view. I'm always slightly nervous when writing Sherlock's head, because it's SUCH a head. This is just another of Sherlock's eventual acceptance of John into his life as more than a convenience. It's going to take a bit for him to admit, even to himself, how important John is to him, but he's getting there. And once he does- well, Sherlock doesn't really like to wait, does he? He decides, he does- one of the things I like about him.


	2. Interlude: The Note

In the middle of London, there lies a flat.

In the middle of the flat, there lies a pile of… well, for simplicity's sake, let's just call it all "experiment products" and be done with it.

And in the middle of this pile, buried underneath mounds of whatever-that-is and Post-Its and small glops of gunk and items of a bone-shaped quality, there lies a note.

Not just any note, though. The Note. The Note written by a person desperate to forget, to remove forcibly from his brain, to rectify his memory so that all knowledge of those emotions is gone, gone forever, never to be seen or heard again.

A note, even written in such a traumatic upheaval, typically doesn't gain anything from it. The bold, capitalized, dramatic words etched in ink and emotion don't imbue that particular piece of paper with powers or cognizance any more than the other Post-Its lying around the flat (most of them reading, "Sherlock, GET THE MILK.", for a reason unknown to the Note). However, this note was written by none other than Sherlock Holmes, and around Sherlock Holmes, as most people know, Interesting Things are bound to happen. And so the note, scribbled hastily from the swirling depths of emotion within an assumedly emotionless person, becomes the Note.

At first, the Note is content simply to be the Note. After all, for a note, what else is there to do whilst buried in a stack of slowly-moulding rubble? The Note talks to the other notes- or tries to, anyways. The other notes apparently aren't conscious (come to think of it, the Note isn't sure why he is, either), so the Note lies in silence and tries to wait patiently for a sentient being to notice it. As this anomaly of a Note was created by Sherlock Holmes and is therefore graced with some of the consulting detective's characteristics, this does not last long. By the end of the first week, an edge of the Note can be seen poking out of the stack of rubble, because merely lying in a stack of rubble is seen by the Note as dull, and the Note calculates that its chances of being seen by other self-aware beings are remarkably higher if the Note itself is visible.

By the end of the second week, about half of the Note is visibly sticking out from the pile of experiment products, because it really is quite bored amidst the insentient variables, and though the Note isn't particularly prone to shooting walls like its writer, it wouldn't mind giving the sentient beings rudely ignoring its existence a nice paper cut. The Note sighs a little note-y sigh to itself, concludes that waiting is BORING, curls in on itself (the Note will later claim it's from the humidity in the flat- something's blown up again, leaving rather a dank feel about the place), and settles in for a nice, long sulk.

On the Saturday of the third week, three of the Note's four corners are clearly visible from the entrance to what he's gathered to be the living room. This information is acquired from the two sentient beings often seen by the Note bustling in and out of it, sometimes stopping to relax and type on computers and watch telly Right In Front Of The Note, and how perfectly rude is that, really? The Note stews and concocts great papery death-trap plans for the two blissfully unaware of its existence. And when one of the men asks, "Not good?" and the other replies, "A bit not good," the Note is inclined to (fully) agree.

When the fourth week begins, the Note has almost resigned itself to a life of horribly boring non-sentient Paperhood. It's been practicing the stillness and quietness that the other papers display, and though the idea of being merely another useless Post-It-like scrap horrifies the Note beyond anything he's heretofore encountered, to escape the onset of ennui, he's willing to try anything.

And then.

And then.

The man with the umbrella comes in and sits down in the chair never occupied, next to the pile of rubbish in the living room. He twists the handle on his brolly musingly as the Creator (as the Note's come to think of him, not without a bit of a papery growl) angrily wrenches the wrong, no-good, horribly-off notes from the violin in his hands. The man with the umbrella winces, and the Note feels a bit of vindictive pleasure that the Creator is so obviously displeased. The man's eyes cast about the room, looking for something to comment on. His eyes land, finally, on the bit of paper sticking out of the pile, long-forgotten, the two lines, "I WANTJOHN. I NEED JOHN." firmly marked on the Note. The man's eyes widen. The Note waits for him to look away.

He doesn't. Instead, his eyes gentle, and his lips spread into a soft smile, before picking up the Note and tucking it into his pocket. He turns his attention to the Creator and says something, something about a John coming home? The Creator replies nastily that he is not this John's keeper. A second later, the door opens and John walks in. (At least, the Note supposes it's John, the reactions of the Creator and the Man with the Umbrella indicate as such, and though the Note is unsure as to the Creator's powers of deduction, it has every confidence in the Man with the Umbrella's.) The Man with the Umbrella and the Creator both smile, and the Man with the Umbrella offers to make John a cup of tea. (Apparently, this is not normal, judging by the reactions of the Creator and John.) The Man with the Umbrella busies himself in the kitchen, first with one pot, then another, then a small bag of what looks like potpourri, then milk and sugar. At last, he takes the Note out of his pocket and, business-like, slides it under the mug. The condensation causes the ink to run a bit, and the Note panics- he hasn't figured out what makes him sentient, and what if it's the precise positioning of the ink, and now that it's run, will he still be cognizant and self-aware and— and— and—

The Man with the Umbrella sets the mug down next to John and announces that he really must be going now. The Note is a bit disappointed, but as he approaches John's lips, still attached to the bottom of the mug, he's certain the Man with the Umbrella has a reason for sticking him to the underside of the mug.

That plan, it seems, is to be revealed rather quickly, as John peels the Note off the bottom of his mug. His eyes scan it, then turn to the Creator. "Sherlock?" he asks. "What's this?"

o.O.o

A/N: ...I can't believe I just wrote 1.1k from the PoV of a piece of paper. Life, what is it?

Anyways, this is for MemoryNZ, who asked what happened next. And I do plan on continuing this (how could I leave you hanging, just when John's found the Note? Or me, for that matter?), so stay tuned! Just a bit of a warning, though- it might turn a bit cracky, as Sherlock's a bit of an unpredictable character. You never quite know what he's going to do or say.

Also, big hugs to the Sherlock fandom in general upon finding out that we won't get new episodes until next year. (Next Year, guys. I don't think I can wait that long!) We can get through this! And on that note, a huge huge huge amount of thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys are splendiferous, and please have some cookies on me. Your reviews made my day, when I got them, so warm fuzzies for all!


	3. Conversations

Sherlock looks at John. John stares back at Sherlock. Sherlock looks at the note. The words, "I WANT JOHN. I NEED JOHN." in his own, precise handwriting, look back at him.

Sherlock swallows.

Clears his throat.

Inwardly curses, because _Damnit, how could he have forgotten the __**note**__? How did it get there? Mycroft, Mycroft must have had something to do with it- is this what it's like in everyone else's brain, always so slow to connect the dots, don't observe, too focused on the minute det-_

"Sherlock?"

_Shit._

"Um." He doesn't think he's ever used that mono-syllabic phrase before. He looks down at his wrist cuffs, which are creased. Unacceptable. He pulls on them, forces them into starchy-straight perfection. Looks up at John, cool and composed again, the "isn't-it-obvious?-How-dull-it-must-be-for-you,-you-can't-see-it-once-again" expression sliding into place with almost an audible _click_. "I needed you for an experiment." He shifts, uncomfortable in John's unwavering gaze, picks up a newspaper from the stack, ignores the gunk dripping off of it (non-poisonous, hydrocolloid of uncertain origins, due to degradation of composition over unknown period of time), and exudes the aura of an undisturbed Sherlock Holmes.

It is a façade that would have fooled every single human being on the planet Earth at that particular moment in time, had the planet decided to chuck one John Watson into orbit a few minutes beforehand just for the heck of it. Unfortunately for Sherlock, it had not, and so Sherlock is forced to face an entirely unconvinced John Watson taking the paper out of his hands— carefully avoiding the gunk—, folding it, and stacking it on top of the pile. John looks at Sherlock again.

"So." John's hands trace the edges of The Note subconsciously.

"So?" Sherlock arches an elegant brow. John leans back against the chair and props his head up on his hand, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock.

"What kind of experiment?"

"What?" Sherlock is entirely unexpected for this (a failing, he realizes, and resolves to correct in the near future, in fact, as soon as he's done with this- _conflict_- Figure Out the Brain of John Watson). John knows that Sherlock is lying; Sherlock knows that John knows he's lying. Why is John playing along? He's only taken aback for a fraction of a second, though- as soon as the end of the word is bitten off, he follows with, "Kind of experiment, John? What have I been working on all week?" It'd have been an admirable save for anyone else, he barely sounds as if he's stuttering; it's unacceptable for him, and of course John notices it. He chooses not to comment on it, however, and snorts.

"Sherlock, you've been bored out of your mind all week. Yesterday you followed Donovan around, deducing her entire life story until Lestrade got tired of it and kicked you out of Scotland Yard. Forcibly."

"There wasn't much to deduce, John. An altogether boring existence." Sherlock scoffs, careful not to show his relief at the change of subject.

"So what experiment?"

Or not.

"It's over now, I used someone else." He ignores the slight wince John gives, almost hidden as he settles down further in his chair.

"Was it successful?"

"The experiment? Oh, yes."

A moment of awkward silence, as both men cast their eyes about the room, refusing to look at the other.

"Well, that takes care of "_I NEED JOHN_", then."John rubs a thumb over the paper. "You needed me for an experiment. "_I WANT JOHN_", however," he grins, "still up for grabs."

"I wanted you for the same experiment."

"…you wrote it twice."

"It was important."

"Why didn't you text me?"

There were moments when Sherlock wished John observed more.

This is not one of those moments.

"You were busy."

"Never stopped you before." John takes out his phone, fiddles with it for a bit, then places it back in his pocket. Seconds later, Sherlock's phone goes off. He quirks an eyebrow at John, who's turned on the telly and is ignoring him in favor of a big, blonde woman spouting the qualities of the particular brand of kitchenware. John's enjoying the display of knives a little too much as they slice and dice onscreen, Sherlock notices as he unlocks his phone.

_So, what is it, really? –JW_

Sherlock looks up. "You have some aversion to talking at the moment?"

"No, but you're more comfortable talking via text."

What? "I can assure you, John, that I am entirely capable of handling a conversation of this sort-" _the I'm-Coming-To-Grips-With-the-Fact-That-I'm-Dependant-On-You-And-If-You-Were-Aware-Of-This-Fact-And-Its-Implications-You'd-Never-Help-On-Another-Case-Ever,-You'd-Most-Likely-Move-Out-And-That-Would-Be-Not-Good-At-All,-John-So-Please-Just-This-Once,-Overlook-the-Clues-Like-You-Always-Do-And-We'll-All-Be-Fine conversation_- "via any mode of communication you deem fit; however, the mode of texting is unnecessary, as we are both in the same room at the same time."

"Says the man who won't walk five feet further to get his own laptop." John's eyes follow the path of the blade, and he smiles, further cementing in Sherlock's mind the notion that also immediately following this conversation, he should hide all the sharp-edged cutlery in the flat.

"I needed you for an experiment." Sherlock's distraction technique, while a brilliant idea at the time, utterly fails in the aims of distracting from the original topic. John grins.

"Yeah, you tried that one already." Warm, amused eyes glance over at Sherlock.

"I needed an extra pair of hands." Sherlock's stiff, annoyed manner streamlines around John like air flows past a particularly well-built racecar; he doesn't look phazed in the least. Sherlock thinks John must be the most mentally aerodynamic person he knows.

"So who'd you get to help you?" Sherlock blazes through a list of names in his head. On all of them, faults abound, flaws in the theory, not the least of which being the fact that most of them would give him away in a heartbeat-

"Lestrade."

John looks him over. "Lestrade?"

Sherlock sighs. "I do hate repeating myself, John, perhaps you've noticed. Yes, Lestrade."

John stares at him for another moment, mouth twisted, then shrugs and turns back to the telly. A moment later, Sherlock's phone beeps. Sherlock looks down, wary.

_You could've just said you didn't want to talk about it. –JW_

Sherlock's gaze grows soft as he watches the madman in the overstuffed chair grin a little too wide at the flash and flicker of the knives on the telly. And, just for a moment, it could almost be considered peaceful in 221B Baker Street.

Then the acid Sherlock's forgotten about eats through the table and starts to drip on the floor, causing a really alarming hiss, and John jumps up and shouts and then runs his hand over his face wearily, and Sherlock swears his eyes move towards the knives in the kitchen too many times for comfort, and then Miss Hudson comes up to see what all the ruckus is about, and, well, it's a bit before everything's calmed down again, and Sherlock's really rather pleased with that.

o.O.o

A/N: This is not the end! I repeat, this is Not The End! I've already got a bit written of the next chapter, so no worries. After all, we have to figure out what happens to The Note, right? (I've never been this attached to a Note before.) Also, I seem to have an incurable disposition towards late-night S/J convos and fluff. This story is quite lacking in the late-night fluffy convos; it shall be rectified!

Just so you know, college is starting up again in about a week's time, and I'm going to be insanely busy with such, so don't expect too much from me in the next week or so. Also, this went in a totally different direction than I had planned, so no, no insanity this time. I don't think, anyways. Oh, and- as this was originally a one-shot, the name kinda doesn't fit now, guys. (I guess I could go back and work it in, but I'm lazy, and changing the name is easier...) Any suggestions?

On a completely different note, you guys, your reviews- I can't even say. I squealed, I happy-danced, I flailed. I'm so glad y'all like it! Thank you, thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my broke little fanfic-writer's heart. Cookies for all!


	4. Interlude: The Boys

In all the ruckus, it takes a while for John to calm down Mrs. Hudson and clean up the acid. Sham-Wows are less absorbent than portrayed on the television, John notes, and goes to tease Sherlock out of his sulk long enough to tell him how to clean the mess up. Eventually, though, the acid is gone, 221B would no longer be deemed hazardous by the British government, were they to drop unexpectedly by (Mycroft isn't due for a visit, but better safe than sorry), and John is off to bed. Before he heads up the stairs, though, warm, strong fingers close about a particular piece of paper, and John grins at the feeling of a covert mission accomplished.

o.O.o

Sherlock heads to the living room straight after John's said goodnight to get rid of the evidence, only to find that the note is gone.

The.

Note.

Is.

Missing.

Sherlock tears the living room apart as quietly as possible, since John is sleeping, and while tearing apart the living room at 2.30 am isn't exactly atypical for Sherlock, it might still rouse John's suspicions as to _something_ being wrong, and Sherlock would really rather John's suspicions remain firmly _un_ruffled.

The note's not in the living room.

Sherlock turns next to the kitchen, a whirlwind of focused energy. It's nearly impossible to stay silent in the kitchen (too many fragile tubes and beakers, filled with boiling, bubbling things, acids and chemicals and body parts and all in all, it's a rather nice room in which to be), but Sherlock manages it, somehow. The note isn't in the bathroom, either; Sherlock checks his room as well, just to be thorough, though his mind comes up empty as for an explanation how it could have gotten there. The note, however, remains frustratingly hidden, and Sherlock feels almost as if it's sneering at him from afar, mocking his emotions, his one moment of weakness. There's nowhere it could be, nowhere it could possibly be, unless-

He turns and looks at the stairs leading to John's room.

o.O.o

Stretched out on his bed, John looks at the note in his hands. Smoothes the wrinkles out carefully. Re-reads the words again, Sherlock's handwriting (so strange to see, the man texts like a maniac, yet never writes out anything), bold and crisp and logical, spelling out the idea so utterly illogical: "I WANT JOHN. I NEED JOHN."

Why?

More importantly, what?

What did Sherlock want from him? What did Sherlock need from him? It's a simple question to answer, most times; Sherlock's never hesitated when it comes to asking for something. (Well. With John. And it's never a direct question, really, he's never heard an honest, "Will you help me with this, John?" or "Would you mind doing this for me?"; it's always reminders and hints and it's surprising how he hasn't noticed this 'til now.) So what was different about this time? John looks at the unassuming piece of paper. The easiest thing, it occurs to him, would be to figure out when it was written and go from there.

He deduces that the paper has four sides. He also deduces that it appears to be one of his Post-It notes. There's a slight water stain from the hot tea mug Mycroft set on it. And then John stops deducing, because he can't deduce anything else, because it's a bloody note, and he's not Sherlock Holmes, damnit, so what on earth possessed him to figure out the inner workings of Sherlock's brain by reading into a piece of paper?

John sighs and rolls over onto his stomach, paper still clutched firmly in his grasp. It really shouldn't be this hard, he thinks furiously. And why does it matter to him, anyways?

Just outside John's door, a motionless consulting detective is barely breathing, poised to knock, thinking the same exact thing.

o.O.o

A/N: I own nothing! (Also, sorry sorry _sorry_ it's short;this is more of an interlude than anything, setting up the scene for The Big Conversation. I'm already working on the next one, which will have long conversations and hair-petting and quite possibly puppies, but I'm not sure about that last one yet. So bear with me! I love you all, and thank you for the lovely reviews; they make my heart happy!)


	5. The Problem with Canines

The door swings open, suddenly, dramatically, banging against the wall with an almighty crash that assuredly has woken Mrs. Hudson. John doesn't even look up from his position, flat on his back, note held above his head as if studying it through the overhead light will somehow help him grasp its meaning. "Is it a case?" he asks, devoid of any real curiosity; John's not much of a multi-tasker, and if it is a case, he'd not be much good on it right now, what with the percentage of his mind dedicated to figuring out the bloody note.

"No," and the quiet tone from the doorway is so unusual for the normally brash, loud, over-dramatic Sherlock that John looks up from his perusal of the note. The consulting detective leans awkwardly against the doorframe, looking out of place for the first time since John's met him. He isn't sure what to think of this. Sherlock doesn't know the meaning of the word "personal boundaries", has come barging into his room at all hours of the night and day, John's own personal, annoying as hell, overgrown petulant child, demanding to be played with, paid attention to, listened to, followed, agreed with, complimented. Not once has Sherlock hesitated at the doorway.

"What is it, then?" he asks after a moment of silence, turning his attention back to the piece of paper in his hands. He ignores the slightly guilty feeling for not inviting Sherlock in, rationalizing to himself that if Sherlock wanted to step (flounce, twirl, sashay, stomp, strut, God forbid he _walk_ in any normal fashion, like mere mortals) into the room, he would've stepped in, because that's what Sherlock does, like it or no. Yet… he sighs, sits up, and gestures next to him on the bed. "Come on in," he says resignedly. Sherlock glances up, eyes taking a cursory scan of John's facial features, before tromping across the room with those big shoes of his (elegant, of course, but big nevertheless) to perch, bird-like, on John's bed.

"Thank you, John." He says it without inflection, as if the words are perfectly normal. As if it isn't the first time he's said them without a hint of sarcasm. As if Sherlocks always extend societal niceties towards unsuspecting ex-army doctors. As if John shouldn't be looking at him like he's suddenly sprouted three heads and is breathing purple fire out of two of them. "John?" he questions, the _a-bit-not-good_ face coming into play again. John shakes his head to clear it.

"Nothing, Sherlock," he answers, then faces the current- and typical- source of his mental gymnastics. "So, what is it?" Sherlock looks pointedly at the paper still in John's hands.

"You took the note."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because." Sherlock shakes his head.

"Because _why_, John?" John is reminded of Harry and his' arguments as children; the discussions share a disturbingly similar tone.

"Because I wanted to study it." Sherlock lets out a breath.

"Ah." A pause. Sherlock steeples his fingers beneath his chin, leans forward so that his elbows rest on his knees. "And what have you deduced?"

"That it's a piece of paper."

A slight chuckle from the detective. "Perfectly sound analysis, John, but I was hoping you'd go deeper." Sherlock casts a one-sided grin at John, and John grins back, remembering their first case together.

"So what's it about?"

"You'll have to be more specific, John. It might seem to you like I wield omnipotence, but I can assure you that mind-reading is beyond my capabilities at the present moment."

"Don't play stupid," John makes a face at him. "You know I'm talking about the note."

Sherlock shifts restlessly and waits for John to continue, to get uncomfortable enough to fill the silence. After a long enough time has elapsed, he realizes a flaw in his otherwise masterly plan; John, it appears, is not bothered by silence. It's strange but also true, that most of humanity cannot stand silence in the presence of another human being. It's strange but also true, that John is one of the exceptions to this rule. The silence stretches, and Sherlock casts his eyes about the room, looking for something to distract him, anything, to keep him from noticing the doctor's gaze, steady and warm and patient, waiting on him. Sherlock doesn't do well with silence, unless it's of his own creation, and even then, the silence isn't real, his mind is lighteons away, and – the thoughts fill up his brain, faster and faster, and John's _right there_, ready to listen, to evaluate, to catch the gush, tidal wave, monsoon of genius that spills from him, fit it together correctly, give it back to Sherlock. His mind continues to fill and fill and fill and it can't stop, won't stop, not now, not ever, until it bursts from his lips, anything unsuspicious, off-topic, to keep John (and himself) distracted. "It's obviously a four-sided piece of paper, not of high quality, rather what you'd find at the typical brand store; the ink, however, is more high-quality than the paper, suggesting either that the pen was a gift or that the buyer of the note and the buyer of the pen were two different people. The note itself is slightly water-stained, probably a cup was set down on it, a hot cup, from the slow spread of condensation- you can tell by the degree of ink smudging in the water stain. It's roughly four weeks old, judging by the lightening of the ink and slight curling at the edges of the paper. Now, the handwriting, the handwriting… Powerful, bold, dramatic, clean lines, yet a certain flair about it – clearly the owner of the pen, rather than the owner of the paper, the owner of such typical paper could never write in such a way." There he stops, and looks at John, waiting. John lifts his eyebrows, gestures for him to continue. Sherlock arranges his expression into that of "slightly puzzled"; he responds, "There's nothing more for me to deduce."

"There's the words on the paper."

"Oh, the words." Sherlock flops back onto the bed, spreading his long arms as far as they can go and very nearly clipping John in the process. "The words are pointless, useless. They provide no information as to either the owner of the paper or the owner of the pen. There is _nothing_ to be deduced from those words." He glares, frustrated, at John.

John chooses his next words carefully. "And if I say there is?"

Sherlock sits up, turns to face him, angry. "I do not lie about deduction, John. It is my professional opinion that the words themselves mean nothing. You all always focus on-" he shoves off the bed, starts pacing the small room- "the minor, insignificant details, the _wrong _details, never the _right_ ones. You always _miss_ something, something _important_, something staring you right in the _face_." His steps sound, stomping, forceful on the wooden floors, and he's not sure whether he's describing John or himself now, but the words keep coming, and so he keeps talking, because that's what's saved him in the past, and if anyone can figure this problem out, it's John, because John can always see the crucial element he's left out. "It's all so _simple_ for you, you go through life, and you see, but you don't _observe_, just the _simplest_ things tip the scales, send innocent men to jail, set guilty men free, and it's always the thing you least _expect_ would make a difference. What is it like, to go through life like that? To not know, to ignore everything of importance around you, to pick out the most mundane of details- brown hair, nice smile, ignore the wedding ring on her finger, not bothered to clean it in years, still wearing it out of sentimentality to her dead husband. That's the problem with you, you lot- you always focus on the _wrong _things, the things that signal familiarity instead of difference. You-" John lays a hand on his arm, which Sherlock realizes belatedly has been gesticulating in short, frustrated bursts of motion.

"Sherlock." The voice is firm but gentle, and in his state of heightened emotion, the dichotomy is almost too much. He stops, stands at John's side, staring down at the hand on his arm. He is quivering, breath coming quicker than normal, nervous energy restrained only by the light touch of the good doctor. He doesn't look at him, can't, not now, he'll lose focus, lose his thought. The hand tugs at his shirt. "_S_herlock." John is unyielding, he thinks, an immovable object. He'd sit there waiting for Sherlock to meet his eyes until the end of time. It's a fanciful thought, but a true one, in regards to John Watson; for, though John has not always been a patient man, he's learned that most things can be gotten if only one has enough patience. Sherlock looks down.

"You were saying?" He quirks an eyebrow.

"What does it mean, Sherlock?"

"What?"

"What you wrote. 'I want John. I need John.'" The words sound strange, not altogether horrifying and wrong, when John reads them.

"Not important." He moves to start pacing again, but John's arm has suddenly gripped onto his. Although he could twist free, he thinks the situation is not dire enough to warrant John's shoulder flaring up again. John's face settles into an annoyed frown.

"No, Sherlock. This is important." Sherlock wrenches free and goes to look out the window, at London, the city of lights and noises and people and puzzles. It doesn't calm him as much as it normally does.

"I needed you to get something for me." In the reflection of the cold glass, he sees John cross his arms.

"What?"

A million ideas race through his head, none of them quite right. "A dog," he decides on. John's reflection raises an eyebrow.

"…a dog," he repeats, clearly nonplussed.

"Yes, John, a dog. For an experiment." He turns on his heel, walks back to the bed, stands squarely in front of John. He feels as if he's waiting for… approval. John scans his face, looking for clues.

"Why did you need me for that?" Sherlock looks at him, nonplussed.

"You get the milk," he points out.

"So you just naturally assumed I'd get the dog as well?" John is fighting hard to keep the incredulity out of his voice, but it's a losing battle.

"I have full confidence in your capabilities of dog-retrieving, John."

"That's not the point, Sherlock."

"Then what is the point?"

John sighs. "Never mind. Ok, so you want a dog." Blue eyes flit suspiciously over the consulting detective's features. "You're not going to poison it, are you?"

"No, John, although a creature to test the effects of certain types of poisons would be most beneficial. Perhaps mice…"

"-so then why a dog?" John asks hurridly, his mind swimming with images of mouse droppings all over the kitchen, stepping on warm, furry, squeaky bodies while getting up to take a leak during the night; 221 Baker can absolutely _not_ handle anymore chaos, John decides, especially of the rodent-sized sort.

"Paw print analysis. It's better if I see the prints themselves, instead of photos or copies; more concrete as evidentiary support." It's a weak argument, and John looks at him suspiciously for a bit. Then the argument is deemed acceptable, or at least no further questions on that line are asked. Sherlock breathes an unseen sigh of relief.

"Ok, so that takes care of 'I need John'; how about 'I want John'?" The consulting detective waves his hand dismissively.

"Same explanation," he looks away, ready to leave.

"No, it isn't." Sherlock turns wide eyes to John, more surprised than he really should be at the accuracy of John's intuition.

"Fine, then." He returns to John's bed, sitting beside him. His body aches for something to do, the urge almost uncontrollable; John, unthinking, offers his hand palm up for Sherlock to distract himself with. They both stare at it for a few seconds, not quite sure what the next move in this strange dance should be; then Sherlock takes it between his, tracing the lines of the palm, running his fingers up and down John's, around the outline of his hand. There's silence for a few minutes, as important things like balance and calm and order are restored. Then Sherlock speaks.

"I wanted you to pick it out."

"The dog?" John asks, and Sherlock nods. "Why me? You must've read books on the topic, know something about dogs, needed a specific kind…"

"You'd do a better job of it." Firm conviction colors Sherlock's voice.

"Alright, then." Preoccupied with the soothing touches on his hand, John is almost lulled into compliance; then the side of Sherlock's mouth lifts for a split-second- a half-grin. Something is up. Ever straight-forward, he asks, "What am I missing?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replies, and presses his hands together, John's hand between them. He lifts them to rest against his lips, his typical "thinking" position somewhat distorted with three hands instead of two.

"Sherlock, if I find a dead dog in my bathroom tomorrow, I won't be happy."

Sherlock glances at him, smiles again. "No dead dogs, John." He promises. Then frowns. "At least, not tomorrow, anyways."

"No dead dogs in the apartment, Sherlock. You can do your experiments on innocent animals elsewhere."

"But what if it's for-"

"I don't _care_ if it's for a case, Sherlock, it's unsanitary." John doesn't even bring up the fact that it's disturbing; as the entire flat has the feel of a very eclectic home decorator experimenting with the macabre, the point has become null and void some time ago.

"Fine." Sherlock pouts, secretly pleased. After all, if he can't do experiments, what good is a dog? John raises an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock panics for all of one second, certain that John hasn't bought the dog story. Then John smiles, and all is well again.

"You do know," John starts, grabbing one of Sherlock's hands with his own entrapped one and bringing it over to himself, "that note could have been taken in an entirely different way." His fingers trace the veins of Sherlock's hands, move slowly over the knuckles, stroke over the rougher-than-he'd-expected palm. His calm, blue gaze remains trained on Sherlock; asking nothing, revealing nothing, content to wait on Sherlock's reaction.

"Don't be so banal, John." Sherlock's heart leaps, unbidden, to his throat. How can one seemingly normal person be dead-on so much of the time? Something in his expression- a slight tightening around the eyes, he'd venture- gives the falsity of the expression away, apparently, because John smirks and stills the movement of his hands across Sherlock's. His face is close, closer than is strictly necessary given the circumstance, and his eyes are – mesmerizing, the blue of them becoming bluer and bluer until it's a color Sherlock cannot have seen before, it's eclipsed his field of knowledge entirely.

"Even so," John draws out the words til they're practically dripping from his mouth, slow, sweet honeyed words dropping into Sherlock's depthless brain, "whatever you decide… it's still all fine."

Sherlock takes a breath. Then another one, because he likes the feel of it, and perhaps because he hadn't taken one in the last minute or so, and perhaps because, boring as breathing is, it's also essential for the continued existence of Sherlock Holmes. He rises from the bed, breaking the gaze. "No, I don't think I particularly need a dog, prints will do in this case." He walks over to the door, carefully not rushing, not speeding, no give-aways this time; typical Sherlock Holmes, completely in control of himself and his surroundings. Safely in the hall, he turns to look at John, almost calls out his name, but stops, uncertain as to what needs to be said. John looks up from his continued study of the note, lips curving into a smile.

Once again, John takes the lead. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he says. Sherlock nods curtly and strides down the hall. A few minutes pass; a door closes with a bit more force than necessary, and through it, scraps of sound can be heard, a violin being played with none too gentle care. Upstairs, John leans back against the headboard and closes his eyes.

o.O.o

A/N: I own nothing, not even my brain. The crack plot bunnies took that a long, _long_ time ago. So! The long conversation. I'm kind of tempted to just end it here and continue with something else, but then I've got a bit of an idea as to where I could go with another chapter. I'm also not sure whether or not to have our heroes get together in _this_, or create another story involving a case (an actual _plot_, guys!) and leave this as another "Sherlock-recognizes-that-yes-he-has-feelings-and-yes-they-are-about-John" story. (I'm slightly obsessed with writings those stories- I love being in Sherlock's POV.) Thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed, and please review! 3


	6. Interlude: The Missing

Sherlock steals into John's room as soon as he can be sure John is safely in REM sleep to steal the damned Note back. He whirls around, searching for the small piece of paper. The movement causes a gust of wind to blow across John's face, and he makes a soft sound in the back of his throat; Sherlock freezes. John settles back onto the pillow, emitting soft noises in a continuous flow until he finds a suitable place on the pillow and presses down into it.

Against his better judgment, Sherlock steps forward. There's something about John's face in sleep- something he hasn't seen before, something new, something soft and vulnerable and warm. Not weak, John could never be that, but the lines on his face aren't as entrenched with worries as they appear during the day, and the relaxed muscles on his face convey a sense of innocence. His mouth is doing that strange smile-frown-y expression again, and Sherlock imagines what it would be like for _this_ John to smile in wonder and amazement at his brilliance, to grin from ear to ear, to tip his head back and just laugh. It's this John, he realizes, that John Watson could've been, had a thousand choices gone differently: had he not decided to join the military, had Harry not tasted that first sip of wine, had his family not cut him out of their lives. It's this John Watson that his John becomes when he's stripped of his responsibilities and allowed to dream, just for a little while. Sherlock brushes John's hair off his forehead, and John nuzzles into the touch, making that same soft sound in the back of his throat. Heart beating at 94 bpm (roughly 27 beats above average), Sherlock leans down, flicks a wet tongue across dry lips nervously. John presses his forehead into the palm of Sherlock's hand a little more; Sherlock jumps back as if burned, then turns and sweeps out of the room, Note found and tucked securely into his coat pocket.

o.O.o

He can't burn it.

He stares at it, infuriated. It shouldn't be this hard; it's a piece of paper. There is no logical reason to keep the paper, and to keep it for emotional sentimentality is utterly beneath him, not worth considering as a viable option.

And still it sits there, mocking him.

He growls in frustration, sweeping a pile of books to the floor as he does so, then surveys his handiwork with a critical eye. Nice aesthetic appeal, the particular spread of the books adds to the décor, not to mention the sweep of color it gives to the room. He turns his eyes back to the note.

He cannot make his hands physically grab the paper and throw it into the fire. He is capable of seizing the Note, but instead of tossing it in and checking on his experiments, like he'd planned to do twenty-three minutes ago, he finds himself smoothing his hands over the paper, checking for any wrinkles or tears, thumbing his way down the creases.

He groans, then throws the note down on the floor and picks up his violin. Rough, sharp Prokofiev fills the living room for the second night in a row.

o.O.o

John doesn't notice, the next morning, that the Note is missing. He's rather distracted by Sherlock; or, to put it more precisely, the not-Sherlock that seems to have invaded Sherlock's body and caused him to act like a normal human being. John tromps down the stairs in the morning and the milk's not all bloody gone. The kitchen is clean and bright (or at least clean by the flat's standards, which means no experiments bubbling and burning or goop from prior experiments), and Sherlock is standing by the table, nibbling on a piece of bread and flipping through the paper.

"Sherlock?" John questions, a little disoriented. Sherlock turns the page.

"Yes, John?" He can see the lifted eyebrow above the newspaper's edge.

"What is this?" John gestures around him. Sherlock folds the paper, sets it down.

"I believe it's called toast." John eyes the plate of bread in the middle of the (clean, why is it _clean_?) table.

"You have to put it in the toaster first, to make it toast. Otherwise it's just bread."

"Ah." They both stare at the plate of bread for a moment. Then Sherlock snatches it up and strides over to the toaster. John is, yet again, bewildered by the actions of the tall, dark, and (today) thoughtful man merrily burning slice after slice of toast. John watches the charring of the bread for a bit, struggling to wrap his head around the _off-ness_ of the situation, then shrugs and turns to get tea. He is stopped by a swishing coat, an outstretched hand, and a very close consulting detective.

"John," the voice is low and somewhat nervous, "I wouldn't do that if I were you." John pushes the hand aside and reaches for the kettle. Sherlock stretches his body fully in front of the sink, making it almost impossible for John to get to the kettle without climbing over him. John sighs.

"I was wondering where your experiments disappeared to so quickly," he remarks, and pushes Sherlock aside to swipe the tea kettle. Inside, as he expected, unidentified experiment goop, crystalline fragments, and other miscellaneous (but most likely hazardous) items slosh around, emitting pretty neon colors and fizzing wildly. He presses the tea kettle to Sherlock's chest. "You clean it up," he announces, and then heads out into the living room to read the newspaper in peace.

"But John, I-" the plaintive remark is cut off suddenly, and all is quiet. The sound of water running reaches John's ears, and he frowns. When he realizes that he's rereading the same sentence for the fifth time, he throws the paper down and walks into the kitchen. What he sees there nearly strikes him dumb.

Sherlock is at the kitchen sink, cleaning the teapot. Without a sound of complaint. He finishes, dries it, and holds it out for John to examine. Wordlessly, John takes it, rubs a finger across the surface, peers inside. It's spotless; he couldn't have done it better himself. John puts the kettle down on the table and walks over to Sherlock, circles him a few times, muttering to himself. Then he stops and pokes his finger viciously into Sherlock's chest.

"Alright, what game are you playing at?" Sherlock frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"This, all of this-" and here John gestures to the entire room. "It's not normal- well, it is, but not… not for you!" He walks closer, stares into wide, thoroughly surprised eyes. "So I'll ask again, and this time you'd better answer me, Sherlock- what are you playing at?"

"I'm astounded you think this is a game, John. If it is, it's a very boring one, and not one I'd have come up with. Or be willing to play, for that matter." Sherlock shifts uncomfortably, and John removes his finger from its position near Sherlock's solar plexus.

"Hmph." John narrows his eyes, then nods, apparently satisfied with what he sees. "Just… act normal, Sherlock."

"I believe that's what I've been doing, this morning."

"Not _that_, you idiot, _your_ normal." Despite himself, John feels a smile curving the corners of his mouth as he speaks. "It's much more interesting."

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, then nods and walks out the door.

"Sherlock?" John calls after him.

Sherlock doesn't look back.

o.O.o

The Note, after several days of being left on the floor, is getting rather annoyed at being ignored. There were several days of being altogether not-ignored, of fuss being made and being passed around and hidden (it liked those parts especially, the episodes of people stealing it were very interesting, and the Note was happy to go along with the game, crinkling itself down small and staying as quiet as a sentient piece of paper can). The Note also enjoyed the amount of time spent simply staring, the intense warm gaze of the smaller John-man, all blue eyes and serious face and short, stubby fingers caressing its sides. The John-man muttered as well, quiet, soft tones, questions not directed towards it (the Note was a little disappointed, but resigned; it seemed no one had ever thought to speak directly to it), just wondering aloud. The Note quite liked the John-man's voice- nice and clear and warm and trust-worthy. All in all, the Note observed, he liked the John-man very much indeed.

And then the Creator had to come in and ruin everything, of course. The Note rustled as menacingly as it could when the Creator came banging into the room, resenting the intrusion into his and the John-man's private moment and wishing to give itself the illusion of intimidation. As it was smarter than the average sentient Note (which wasn't saying much, what with it being the only one of its kind), it didn't think this particular defense move would work too splendidly, but the tactic was, as the John-man had said prior to the Creator's rude interruption, worth a shot. (The Note wasn't sure what the John-man was referencing, but it seemed like a good phrase to keep handy, just in case.) The Creator and the John-man had spoken for a bit, and then the Creator had left. The John-man seemed— well, the Note wasn't sure, as its experience with emotions was based solely on its own experience and a few staring contests here and there since its creation, but the John-man _seemed_ happy. Tense and worried, but happy. As the John-man turned off the light, the Note spread itself out on the bedside table and prepared for another long and boring night.

The Creator walked in again during the night, but differently this time- sneakily. The Note, considering itself an expert on all things sneaky after being stolen twice, didn't think much of the Creator's quality of sneakiness- a five out of ten, if that. Then the Note focused on what was happening, since the Creator was walking towards the John-man, the John-man was not awake, and the Note was not very trusting of the Creator. It rustled threateningly again, but the Creator took no notice. He bent down to the John-man, pushed the hair off his face. The Note pretended to be as aloof and unobservant as the other non-sentient pieces of paper, but followed the Creator's actions, fascinated- was this another "human" ritual of which he knew not? The Creator wet his lips. The Note watched. The John-man moved, and the Creator sprung away, grabbing the Note unexpectedly off the table and shoving him into his pocket. The Note managed to get in a good, deep papercut before the Creator lifted his hand off the Note. Smugly, the Note smiled to itself as it was stolen, whirled off to its next destination.

Which appeared to be a fireplace. The Note was not a fan of fire. In fact, it was very, very much not a fan of fire. So much so that, when it got near the fire, it would curl up its edges in fright (the equivalent of a papery hugging of Note-self). The only thing between the Note and the hideous, awful fire was the Creator, and the Note was determined to keep it this way. The Creator stared at the Note. The Note glared just as ferociously back, determined to not let an ounce of fear show. The Creator sighed and dropped the paper onto the floor. It heroically refrained from floating up in glee, and, as soon as the Creator stalked off to where the Note could no longer see it, folded itself as far away from the fire as was paperly possible.

And then there was the morning. The Creator was behaving strangely, according to the words from the John-man. This was not good, apparently. (The Note could be no judge of this, seeing as how the Note was not as well-versed in Creator behavior as the John-man.) The John-man had asked the Creator to act "normally" (the Note still has no idea what this word means, though he suspects it means very different things to different people), and the Creator had gone out.

o.O.o

He doesn't come back.

The John-man doesn't get worried; he cleans up the charred black things from the table, shoves them down the trashcan, puts on a coat, and goes out. It is only when the John-man comes home and the Creator is still missing (the Note gives out a papery sigh of happiness) that the John-man becomes worried, the creases on his face suddenly appearing as though they've been folded many times over since this morning. He pulls out his talking-thing and asks for a human named "Lestrade". Has this Lestrade seen the Creator? The answer is no, the Note can tell because the John-man sighs and rubs his thumb over the lines on his forehead. How about "Molly"? No? Well, thank you, and with that, the John-man hangs up the talking-thing and sits down on the couch. He spies the Note sitting on the floor and picks it up.

"You wouldn't know where Sherlock's gotten to, would you?" he asks, blue eyes soft. The Note crinkles discouragingly. "No, thought not," the John-man replies, then laughs at himself. It's not the nice laugh of before; this laugh is tired, the Note reflects, and not very happy at all. "Look at me," the John-man murmurs. "Next thing you know, I'll be talking to the skull." He presses the Note absent-mindedly between his palms, and the Note presses back as much as it can (not much) against him, giving him a papery hug.

The next day, the lines on the John-man's face are even more folded. He checks the flat in the morning, every room, then pulls on his coat and heads out without a word to the Note. The Note, needless to say, is a bit discouraged by this; it'd been hoping for a friendly "hello", at least. Maybe even a trip to wherever the people go when they go outside the door. It must be an exciting place, the Note observes, having seen the John-man and the Creator both coming and going in various states of excitement. It asks the other papers, but they remain as stubbornly silent and non-sentient as before. The Note sighs a papery sigh and resigns itself to a bit of boredom, at least for the time being.

By the third day, the John-man's face-lines are so creased that it looks like his face is made of old origami paper, just now smoothed out after years of being folded. The John-man himself looks like he should be folded up and put in a drawer for a nice long rest. After the John-man eats, people come over, picking up everything, looking and searching and it's all very exciting except that the John-man is in the midst of all this chaos, looking like he's been through a shredder or two, and the Lestrade-man is insisting that "he does this, goes off for days on end, it's nothing to worry about", and the John-man is telling the Lestrade-man, calmly but firmly, that something's different, that the Creator wouldn't just _go off_ this time. The Lestrade-man looks as skeptical as the Note feels, but sighs and says, "Well, you know him best," and sends out a team to look for the Creator. The flat empties slowly, and after the last non-John-man leaves, the John-man runs his hand through his hair, pulls a dark brown bottle from the fridge, and turns on the big glowy shouty thing. He's got it on, anyways, but the Note watches his eyes, which are watching the door and the windows more than anything. The talking-thing rings, and the John-man's eyes light up; he pounces on it and— but it's not the Creator, it's someone named "Sarah". The Note feels a bit of sorrow at this, then chastises himself; surely he wants the Creator gone? It's hard to remember that, though, the Note thinks, when the John-man's eyes look so sad.

o.O.o

A/N: I own nothing. So you guys, I accidentally a plot. Eeek! What is this plot doing in my fluff? I don't understand. I think it got lost, but it's refusing to go away. And now Sherlock is missing. HMMMM.

But thank you guys so much for reviewing and generally loving on me! Y'all are ridiculously awesome. Hope you enjoyed!


	7. Places and Journeys

The soft click of the door as it closes awakens Sherlock. He tempers his body, careful not to display any overt signs of waking, and, eyes still closed, attempts to deduce the situation.

No sounds of footsteps; could be seated in the room, but, considering the closed door, not likely. Coverlet under his body, slightly springy mattress; not Mycroft, then, Mycroft normally uses the office. (And asks before resorting to such measures as kidnapping. He is always so particular about manners, before giving into the flair for violent drama underlying his personality.) Sherlock is somewhat disappointed; though he'd never say it, he'd been dying for a case, and one worth the effort of kidnapping him is always bound to be an interesting one.

Room, then. Judging from the air flow in the room, window open, stupid to leave it open. Surely they, it's most definitely more than one person, so they, realize that even if it's a moot point of escape, shouting is more than effective as a means of communication? Air vents as well, only two, so decently-sized room, approximately fifteen by twenty feet. Feet are placed on the floor, a soft sigh issued. Well, then. Male, obviously, from the tone, but what else? Frustration, no, boredom, possibly (he sympathizes with the man, if this turns out to be the case), relief… His deductions continue as the feet stand, walk approximately eight feet (six steps, large man), and stop at the bedside. From his (slightly awkward) position stomach-down, head off the bed, Sherlock can see the shoes of his baby-sitter; black, scuffed but expensive, indicating previous (possibly sudden) wealth but a down-turn in fortunes recently. Not an altogether uncommon story, considering the economy. The pants-cuffs reveal the newness of the suit – grey worsted wool, pleats from the store still ironed in, only a few washings new, then. The feet rise up to balance on their toes while the man's knees make an unscheduled appearance quite close to Sherlock's eye sockets. A hand drifts down Sherlock's neck to his back.

"Time to wake up, lovely." The voice is low, cultured, soft, what Sherlock's would have been had he actually given a damn at those manners lessons into which Mummy had shoved Mycroft and him. Wealthy, then, not only previously, but from childhood; most likely pampered from a young age. Spoiled. Angered easily. Sherlock ponders for a second the repercussions of not responding, but as the man's knee is still so close to his eye, he decides against following his curiosity. He gives a half-hearted groan, as if waking from a deep sleep, pulls his head onto the mattress and burrows down.

"Don't make me do this the hard way," The man's voice gives no sign of agitation, rather, faint amusement. "I know you're awake, been awake for a bit, too, now haven't you?" Sherlock's body shows no response, but inwardly his mind is racing, searching for the tell, what did he do, what did he do – "Alright, Mr. Holmes. I'll give you one more chance, and then I'll have no choice but to use- other methods of inquiry." The voice holds a hint of anticipation, and Sherlock adds –violent– to the man's already rather long list of qualities. The hand strokes up, cradles his cheek. Possibly gay. Probably. The hand reels back, and Sherlock braces for the slap, when-

"Oi! Mind you don't bruise the bait!" A (female, on the younger side of middle-aged) no-nonsense voice cuts through the air, and Sherlock whips his head off the bed and toward the sound. She places the brown paper bags (take-away, smell of Chinese, grease spotting through) on the table and turns to face the man with a ferocious scowl. "He's to be in _good condition_, do you hear me? No mess-ups." The look on her face expresses the cut-off ending, _this time_. She reaches over and snaps the window shut, rolling her eyes. "And next time you open the window, I'll, well…" She smiles widely; the man pales. She pats his cheek. "Use your imagination, love." Sherlock swings his legs over to the edge of the bed, and the woman looks directly at him for the first time. Her eyes are sharp, needle-sharp, piercing and darting and cunning all at once. She walks over (five-foot six in heels, respectable height, nothing in appearance to make her stand from the crowd; with those eyes, that fact cannot be coincidence) and stands solidly in front of him. "Hello, Mr. Holmes." A hand appears in the vicinity of his face. He lifts his head to look at her, eyebrow raised. "You'll most likely be here a while, Mr. Holmes, we might as well be civil." The hand remains. He pushes it out of the way dismissively; it returns. He stares at it. She stares at him. Grudgingly, he shakes the hand. It disappears. "So, Mr. Holmes." She turns back to the table, where the man from before and a new one are now sitting. The bag is untouched; Sherlock would be more than a little amused at her complete dominance over her surroundings and peers, were he not included in such a category. However, he surmises, he needs more information before doing anything. Besides, without a case in weeks, this is the most interesting thing that's happened since he set the oven on fire. Again. It burned green. John wasn't happy. "Would you like some food?" Inwardly, he congratulates her on the vagueness of the suggestion; were the windows kept shut, as apparently was ordered, he wouldn't have gotten any information as to the time of day from the question.

He stretches lazily, responds, "No." Dull, flat tone, as if bored. Throw, if not her, at least her two lackeys off.

"Come, now, Mr. Holmes," she responds, teeth flashing in what is assumed to be a comforting grin; it reminds Sherlock too much of Mycroft's manipulative smiles for it to work on him. "You could be here for a bit, and the food's warm now. Much better eating it fresh than reheated." He remains on the bed, and she adds, "Besides, I know you have questions for me. You eat, I'll talk." Weighing the alternatives is almost too easy; communication, any communication, brings information, what he's currently in need of, and the risk of poison is low, considering the lack of tells in the lackey's faces when the leader talked about keeping him for a time. He joins them at the table, and the male who watched over him reaches out to stroke his hand as he places it on the table. Sherlock rears back, but the woman beats him to the punch with a sharp snap of her hand across the male's back of the head. "No," she says, in the same tone of boredom Sherlock just used, and continues ladling chow mein into the bowls. "Sorry about that, Mr. Holmes; he's a bit grabby." The male receives his bowl and starts to eat in silence. Sherlock watches, fascinated by the overt display of alpha-dominance and acceptance of such by what he's termed "the pack". "So, questions, Mr. Holmes?" Her friendly gaze is on him, and he is again reminded of Mycroft. The two would make a striking pair, he thinks, both slithery and slippery and manipulative.

"What are you called?" He asks. Her eyes glimmer, and he wishes again that he had paid more attention to social manipulation techniques. "You may call me Christina," she replies. At that response, he has to admit that her attempt to assimilate him into her pack is well-played, if a bit heavy-handed. "Alright, then," he smiles in an attempt at amicability, "why have you brought me here?" She stares pointedly at his bowl until he takes a bite, surmising that, at least until the conversation is over, appearing to submit to her authority would be the best option.

"Mr. Holmes, have you been in recent contact with your brother?"

"Not altogether recent, no."

"In the last few days?"

"…yes." If the texts Sherlock deleted unopened count as contact.

Christina purses her lips. "Then he did not inform you that we might be contacting you?" She seems somewhat displeased by this notion; for the life of him, Sherlock cannot imagine why.

"Are you an old school acquaintance of his?" He asks. Christina throws her head back, throat in full display (so she hasn't been acquainted with many people who know him, then, if she still thinks sexual manipulation might work on him), fake laughter pouring out like cheap wine.

"No, no, no, though good guess," Seemingly delighted with the notion, she shakes her head. "We only know each other – professionally." The pause is (obviously) deliberate.

"Professionally." Sherlock repeats, then realizes he sounds like the bloody Scotland Yarders.

"Yes, professionally." She leans forward, a certain gleam in her eye. "Now, Mr. Holmes, in the area of case-solving…"

Well, that was unexpected. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at her, but says nothing.

"You are good?" Sherlock sniffs, turns his head away. She presses on.

"Well, I say _good_…" Her voice trails off, then returns, barely a whisper now. "I've heard of some of your exploits, Mr. Holmes. All most… intriguing."

He turns his head to look at her, face displaying nothing. "And?"

"I'm here, Mr. Holmes, to ask you –"

"Ma'am." The second man glances at his watch. "Ma'am, he'll be here any second."

"Ah. Well." She dusts off her skirt, moves behind Sherlock. Too late, he feels the prick of the needle piercing his neck. "Too late now, I suppose. Until next time." Her voice fades away into the soft blackness creeping in from the edges of the room…

o.O.o

Mycroft stares at the blinking light on his phone indicating "New Message". His fingers, almost too big for the buttons, tremble as they press the "view" option. A merry little chiming sound, and a picture of his brother, unconscious on a nondescript bed, mouth sagging slightly open and skin looking almost translucent against the dark red of the coverlet, flashes across the screen. Weak. Soft. Unprotected. Vulnerable. His hands clench involuntarily around the phone, just for a split second, before he remembers that there are others in the room. Another merry little chiming sound: the words "New Text Message Received" blink over the image of his younger brother's unconscious body. He opens it, and the words, "Ready to bargain?" scroll past his eyes. He closes them. His fingers clench again around the phone, and this time, he gives into the anger, just once. The phone screen sparks, breaks in his hands. The words white out, although the words and image are burned against the back of his lids. He pockets the now-useless piece of technology (although Anthea will get it working again in no time, he's sure, it's so nice to have people around to do that for him) and finishes his conversation with Lestrade, who is kindly oblivious enough to have not noticed Mycroft's distractedness.

o.O.o

John, however, has. He frowns as he watches Mycroft weave and cut smoothly through the living room, dancing in and out of conversations, smiling kindly here, patting Mrs. Hudson's hand for a moment, then back to Lestrade to discuss quietly any theories (all bogus, John would bet the farm Mycroft's known about this for weeks). He says his goodbyes, quietly avoiding John's eye, trying to slip through the door unnoticed (given his bulk, an admirable feat). Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work. John saw his face while he was talking to Lestrade, saw the brief spasm of the hand holding the phone, turning it into a black, mangled hunk of broken technology. He grabs his coat, shoves the note, which he's come to think of as his lucky talisman, inside a pocket, runs out the door, and is able to fling himself into the back of Mycroft's car just as it's pulling away from the curb. Mycroft looks up, plastic smile on his face.

"John! So sorry, I didn't get to say goodbye, but work-"

"What was on your phone?" John interrupts. Mycroft looks carefully taken aback. John wonders how often he's practiced the look in the mirror before the expression became second nature.

"Sorry?"

"On your phone. Something you saw made you angry." Mycroft's plastic smile softens into one perhaps 5 % genuine.

"You know, you really are more observant than people give you credit for, John."

"You can tell that to your brother when he gets back. Now, what was on the phone?"

Mycroft's smile becomes rigidly plastic again, for a second, before releasing itself into lines of straight tenseness.

"I believe it'd be considered classified information, John. Besides…" He fishes the phone from his pocket. "The information is gone." Across from John, Anthea, silent during the entire exchange, darts her eyes from the phone to Mycroft, then back to the phone again.

"Your assistant would have no problem fixing it, and you know it, Mycroft, it's the only reason you allowed yourself to destroy it." John holds out his hand for the phone, but Mycroft is already pocketing it. The car stops; John glances out the window, realizes they are, again, at 221B Baker Street. Mycroft shifts in his seat.

"Thank you for your time, John; it's been most informative."

John knows he's only got a few seconds to convince Mycroft, so he keeps his voice down and speaks fast as the driver approaches the door. "Mycroft, whatever you saw on your phone, whatever it is, it has to do with your brother, and I'm going to help. I'll be your legwork; I need the information you have, but you detest legwork, so that's what I'll do. I'll be your legwork, but I need help, because I need somewhere to start, and you can give me that. He's your brother, Mycroft, but he's my flatmate, my friend, and I deserve to know anything you know about his location and condition. I want to be prepared when I find him to take care of him, and I can't do that if you don't give me the information. So please, Mycroft, just fix up the phone, tell me what you know. I promise you, I will search to the ends of the earth if I have to, but I will find your brother. But," he adds, hand scrubbing the back of his neck, "it'd be a lot easier with something to start from."

The driver is holding the door open, sounding concerned. "Sir? Sir?" But Mycroft's eyes are roving John's face, the tense set of his jaw, the steady, calm stare, searching for- what? Apparently Mycroft finds it. He nods to himself and tells the driver to shut the door. As they speed off towards- well, wherever,- Mycroft hands the black broken phone to Anthea, who immediately begins recovery work. Mycroft stares at John, quiet, simple, unassuming John who is never what he seems; John, ever the fierce soldier, stares right back.

o.O.o

A/N: I signed away everything to pay for college loans. Happily, I didn't have to sign away BBC Sherlock. Sadly, this is because I never have, nor will I ever, own it.

Um... so, yeah. Plot. What'd you think? (I'm kind of excited. Although scared stiff about writing Mycroft. Sherlock, I think I've gotten. How the fuck do you write Mycroft?) Is it plot-y enough? Are you excited to find out what happens next? (So am I; I honestly have no idea what's going to happen next. I'm just writing. Planning, _plotting_, what's that?) Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me through this! And, as always, my lovely reviewers, you have a very special place in my heart.


	8. Protection

The next time Sherlock wakes up, it's in a much more classic interrogation-torture-style room. Dark walls are barely visible from the light of the bare bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling, and the table is set in the exact center of the room, manila folder on the table. He is pushed up in a chair to one side of the table; Christina in the same position on the other side. She smiles.

"So glad you could join us, Mr. Holmes… again."

"Lovely change of scenery. Really sets the mood," Sherlock remarks, making a show of darting his eyes about the room.

"Oh, it's nothing like that, Mr. Holmes. Simply a convenient place in which to carry on our discussion from before. I'm sure you understand." Christina brushes off the lapel of her suit-jacket, then turns her full attention to Sherlock.

Sherlock tries to stare her down. This is, he finds, invariably more difficult without the intimidation his coat seems to bring with it. Christina, unphased and a little amused, stares back.

"So, where were we, before we were... so _rudely_ interrupted?" She leans over the table, eyes hinting at mischievousness, lips curled back into a flirtatious smile. The flagrancy of her gestures is almost insulting, but then, Sherlock supposes, if it's all an act, it's much easier to be overbearing than subtle.

"I believe we were talking about a certain case?"

"Oh, yes." Red lips pucker briefly into a pout, then grimace. "Always business, isn't it? Well, then." She glances up at him through lowered lashes. "As I was asking before, how good are you?"

"I believe we've already answered that question." Sherlock looks down at his gloves, feigning boredom.

"Well, then…" She slides the manila folder across the table. Sherlock opens it, then looks up, surprised. A jolt of anger runs through him, and he slams the folder closed.

"No." It echoes across the tiny room, but Christina seems to be unaffected. She tilts her head at Sherlock, frowns at him, much in the same way a pet owner would the new puppy who'd peed on the carpet.

"No?"

"No." Sherlock makes his voice as impassive as possible, but still a bit of strain breaks through. Christina smiles as if it were an admission.

"You're curious, aren't you? Don't you want to see, to pry, to know?"

"No."

Christina offers an indulgent smile. "But, Mr. Holmes, you don't even know to what the pictures pertain. I could be asking you to instigate almost anything."

Sherlock glances down at the offending folder, then back up at her. "But you aren't."

She sighs softly. "No, I'm not." Sherlock's fingers unconsciously stroke the folder while he watches Christina, searching for any signs of weakness, anything to be used against her, anything at all…

A knock on one of the walls shatters Sherlock's concentration. "Ma'am?" A gruff voice sounds from outside the room. "Ma'am, they've arrived."

"They?" Christina's face spasms into what might have been surprise, then settles into calmness once again.

"Yes, ma'am. Him and his... partner." The man's voice is laced with disgust. Christina turns to him.

"Well, your John Watson seems a very persistent lad, doesn't he?" It's not often that Sherlock is blindsided by people's words or actions; today, he surmises, seems to have had enough instances to last him a lifetime. John is here, John is Sherlock's partner, who would John contact if he was worried about Sher- _oh_.

"Mm." He keeps it short, noncommittal. Heartless. He is heartless. Emotions don't help, don't save people. He can be heartless. Christina is shaking her head.

"No, don't worry, we need nothing from John. Just a stray comment." She flashes her pearly white teeth at him yet again, and he concentrates on not leaping up and punching them down her pretty throat. He's not normally so violent. They won't touch John. Not if he cooperates. Play along. Just play along. Heartless.

"Although his company…" she gestures to the manila folder under Sherlock's hands. "Well, we're interested in him, as you can see."

"What do you want me to do?" She glances to the folder, then back to him.

"Just look at the pictures. See what you can find. Go where the evidence leads you."

"I will have to leave to do that, you know."

"Oh, yes."

She says nothing more, and he looks questioningly at her. She looks disappointed, as though her prized pupil had gotten a mark for talking out of turn.

"We didn't mean to keep you here forever, Mr. Holmes; we just wanted to talk to you, say hello. Keep you from being totally bored." She turns to go.

"I haven't said I'll do it." It erupts from his mouth; abruptly, Christina stops.

"No, but you will, won't you?" She turns to him, leans her hands on the table. "All those years of wondering what happened, what went wrong, what he did, why he changed… This could be the answer." She straightens. "You know where you are, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Seventeenth floor is his office. He and John will be waiting for you. We'll be in contact."

"Mmmm," Replies Sherlock, eyes stuck to the folder as the door closes. At the door's slam, he starts and flips it open, fumbling in his eagerness. As his fingers smooth down the lines of a much younger Mycroft's face, he wonders aloud, "Why, indeed…"

o.O.o

"Done, sir." Anthea announces as she holds out the phone. The crack lines are visible, but the screen works, and that's all they really need. Mycroft busily clicks through to the message he wants and hands the phone over to John. His breath catches in his throat. To see Sherlock, looking so small and defenseless… He looks up at Mycroft.

"Well, I can see why you broke the phone now." His eyes scan the message below as Mycroft chuckles, more out of reflex than any actual humor. ""Ready to bargain"?" Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. "How do you know these people?"

"They are powerful." Said as if stated about the weather, John fumed to himself. All the powerful people know each other, John, don't you know? Well, no, John doesn't know, John's not in the goddamned powerful-people country club, but give John the names of the people in the powerful-people country club, and he'd happily rip their heads off right now, and since when did John start speaking in third-person inside his head? This, John's inner monologue concludes, is what happens when one shares a flat with a Holmes.

The phone pings; Mycroft reaches out for it, but John, frowning, holds it out of his reach and opens the message. Two words flash across the screen: _Too late. _The accompanying picture is dramatic (Sherlock would appreciate its aesthetic value, John thinks): a straight-on of Sherlock sitting at a table, head bent over a folder, the tension in his shoulders and gleam in his eye screaming "_CASE"_. John wordlessly hands the phone over to Mycroft, confused. Mycroft sucks in a breath. "Oh."

John waits, but Mycroft seems to have forgotten about him, staring off into the distance. He can practically feel the car getting hotter with the tremendous amount of thinking going on in Mycroft's head. When the car stops, Mycroft looks at him as though only now noticing his presence.

"Well, of course, John, you are welcome to wait in my office. It won't take but a bit…" John sighs and steps out of the car, following Mycroft into the glass-fronted building. After all, he reasons, it'll be easier to ask the questions in Mycroft's office, rather than in a vehicle.

"So, what was that about?" John asks as he closes the oak-paneled door to the office behind him. He's slightly smug to hear the quick, "Oh!" from the other side of the door as Anthea finds it most definitely closed. Her heels click off, and she enters through a passage behind a bookcase, fingers still busily typing away. John glares at her, then looks back to Mycroft, who's already seated behind his ridiculously large antique oak desk. He waves John into the seat across from him as Anthea walks out of the room, not having looked up once from her phone.

"My brother's been given a case." Mycroft settles back in his chair, fingers at lips in a position eerily reminiscent of Sherlock. John valiantly resists the urge to say, "No, duh," and instead retaliates with,

"Yes, that's obvious," Mycroft's brows raise a little; John plunges on, "but why? Why would they kidnap him just to give him a case? And why would they send you a message threatening him, but then when you get a picture where it's plain to see he's fine, better than fine, it's "too late"?"

"Kidnapping Sherlock in order to get him to agree to a case is not, strictly speaking, unusual." The ghost of a smile fades across Mycroft's face, and John wonders, not for the first time, exactly which circle of hell having a Holmes for a brother must be in.

"I'm not concerned about that." John leans forward in his seat. "What is your involvement in all this, Mycroft? Why are they targeting you?"

Mycroft clears his throat. "Sherlock is, shall we say, a weak spot. A little-known weak spot, but one nonetheless."

"A weak spot." John's brain races, trying to put the pieces together, too slow, always too slow when you're trying to keep up with the Holmes brothers. Mycroft looks anywhere but at him. Something clicks into place, and John visibly stiffens, as if for a blow. "It's the case, isn't it? It's dangerous, or something you don't want him to know." He states calmly.

"Yes," the voice comes from behind him, and John whips around.

"Sherlock, so glad you could join us." Mycroft gestures towards the seat next to John. "Please, sit down."

"You know, I don't think I will." Sherlock shifts the manila folder in his hands, meets John's eyes, smiles slightly. "Coming, John?" Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel and walks through the open doors. John mutters under his breath and stands up. Mycroft stands, as well.

"Always a pleasure, John." He smiles, extending his hand. John nods at him and heads towards-

"One moment, if you please."

Damn.

He turns.

"You know, Sherlock's probably hailing a cab now, and I do need to make sure he's alright, so I'll-"

"My offer still stands, John." John looks at him, uncomprehending. "From before, of course. I just want to keep an eye on him, the same as you." He sighs. "I do worry about him so."

John's hands ball into fists at his sides. That this man would dare to think- after what his _brother _just- "My answer," he almost bites out the words, "is no." Mycroft fashions his face into soft disappointment, says something else, but John isn't quite in the mood for listening. He turns and storms out the doors, managing to make nearly as impressive an exit as Sherlock, for once. Speaking of whom, is waiting for him at the elevator two hallways down, tiny, pleased smirk on his face. John barks out, "What are you smiling at?" Sherlock immediately rearranges his features into an impassive stare.

"Nothing," he replies, looking straight ahead as the elevator doors close. John sighs.

"Come on, now, let's have a look at you." He places both hands on either side of Sherlock's head and brings it down to his level, stares directly into his eyes. "Any dizziness, wooziness? Yes, I know you can manage walking fine, but you can manage to do lots of things while in pain or disoriented." Sherlock doesn't even bother hiding the smile now, taking it, of course, John grumbles to himself, as praise. After giving his head a quick once-over for bumps and bruises, John decides to be thorough and double-check, just to be sure, pushing his fingers back into Sherlock's dark, curly hair and checking his eyes again for signs of disorientation. His fingers slow in Sherlock's hair, and he allows himself to note the soft, soft texture, the warmth and thickness and Sherlock-y smell of the stuff. John marvels at the beauty that is Sherlock quiet, like a cat with milk almost, eyes half-slitted with pleasure, entranced, calmed at the slow tug of John's hands through his hair. Sherlock tilts his head forward into John's chest, and John closes his eyes as he runs his hands through Sherlock's hair soothingly.

It is at this moment that the "1st Floor" button blinks and the doors open out into the very prestigious, very fancy lobby of the building in which Mycroft is currently working. There is a long moment of silence, as the inhabitants of the elevator and the passers-by outside the elevator exchange awkward glances. Then a younger businessman pushes into the elevator, winks conspiratorially, and murmurs under his breath, "Whatever happens in the elevator, stays in the elevator." He slips a piece of paper unobtrusively into John's right back jeans pocket and pats his bum; John gapes at him, beyond horrified. With that, the moment is broken, and the gawkers disperse. John hastily removes his fingers from Sherlock's head, yanking out a few hairs in the process, and they both hustle towards the front doors and the relative safety of the cabs waiting outside.

o.O.o

A/N: No, I don't own BBC Sherlock, dangit! Stop reminding me!

Also, it's official. I tried to write only plot this time, I really did. Then crack came out at the very last second. I tried to stuff it back in, but it Just! Wouldn't! Work! But hey, now I've actually got a plot! I know where I'm going with this- YAYS! (And the Note will be back soon, so no worries!)

As always, thank you thank you THANK YOU for the reviews and favorites!


	9. Cars and Skulls

Sherlock Holmes on a case is, John's come to think, a bit like setting an overloaded firework loose in London- unexpected, uncontrollable, slightly terrifying, a little bit beautiful, and one never quite knows how to prepare for the inevitable spectacular wreck at the end of the whole thing. Sherlock Holmes on a case is good, wild, terrific, fantastic, utterly riveting. Sherlock on a case is flaring coats and damn good acting and unseen connections and disaster, beautiful disaster everywhere, and John doesn't mind so much cleaning up after Sherlock's messes because when he's in the moment, with Sherlock, he's so heart-throbbingly _alive_ that, being the adrenaline junkie he is, he just eats it all up and begs for more.

Sherlock on a cold case is beautiful in its own way, too, pictures and maps tacked to the wall, red threads zig-zagging through everything in a spider-web of connections only Sherlock is able to clearly see. Bubbling flasks and tubes beckon on the kitchen table, glimmering in the bright lighting as Sherlock bends his head to examine another sample, muttering to himself behind the elaborate science set-up, about which John's frankly afraid to ask.

Sherlock not on a case adds to him yet another edge of danger, the danger of his own brain, working, working, constantly working, never stopping, go go go, ready always for the next thing, desperate to learn, to solve, to focus on something, anything, anything at all, just _please, something, please_. With a bored Sherlock in the house, one's never sure what's to turn up next, whether it's holes in the wall, used needles in the bin outside (John knows the signs to look for, thank you very much, he's not as stupid as Sherlock would have everyone believe, and after the last time, when John refused to go on the case with him high, the day after the case was solved he found Sherlock's drug case on his bed, needles and drugs intact), or random "experiments" in the apartment (though John still refuses to believe that the chinchilla was an experiment).

John isn't so stupid as to think that he'd seen all the varying shades and spectrums of his friend, but he did think he'd gotten all the main ones down, at least. Sherlock on an unsolvable case, however, is a new one.

It's hard to watch, to be honest; beautiful, Sherlock is always beautiful, energy and passion and life erupting from his body in bright, sparking arcs. The focus is there, too, Sherlock's singular mind devoted to the task, stretching, searching, and at first it's brilliant, wonderful, amazing, as usual. And then the weeks start to stretch on, pile on top of one another, and still Sherlock's working on the one case. It's a solid case, it seems- impenetrable, frustrating, not a toehold to be found in the piles of folders around the flat. The homeless network is buzzing with other crimes, mysterious dead bodies, kidnappings – it'd typically be Christmas in 221B, but no, Sherlock's not caught, not interested by any of those, what is he doing here, John, take him away, can't you see I'm busy? Nothing to do with the case comes in from anywhere. There's cold cases, there's dead cases, and then there's this. John starts to worry sometime in the second week, when he comes home from work to find Sherlock passed out on the kitchen table, hand disturbingly close to an undefined patch of semi-gelatinous, glowing green material slowly eating its way through the wood underneath. He gets even more worried the next week when Sherlock wobbles, then tips over and flat-out faints – lack of nutrition, it turns out. John's afraid to ask the last time Sherlock ate, and amazed that he didn't catch it sooner. Sometime between the third and fourth nicotine overdose, John begins to ask Sherlock why he doesn't just quit the case, but stops when he sees that Sherlock isn't listening, tired, burning eyes staring at the point right behind John's head, at the faded picture of Mycroft tacked to the wall.

And so, at the third week, John is nearly at the end of his rope when he decides to do something about it: that something being contacting Mycroft. He hesitates, gnaws at his lip, debates with himself as to whether Sherlock would see it as a sign of betrayal. (He would, but would he even notice that John'd met with Mycroft, in his current state?) And then, of course, there's the problem of getting in touch with the man. A simple text would do, but that would be easily traceable, and John really doesn't feel like dealing with the cloak-and-dagger hysterics that usually accompany a "casual meeting" with Mycroft. Bugger it all, John decides, and gets out his phone. This is, of course, when a mysterious black car pulls up to 221B. John calls out that he's going for a bit of fresh air. Nearly hidden underneath the piles of books on Afghani culture and poisons, Sherlock mumbles something in a language John can't place. John shrugs, pulls on his jacket, and walks out the door.

"No Anthea this time?" John asks as he crawls in the back of the unmarked black car. Mycroft looks quizzically at him, and John shakes his head. "Never mind."

Mycroft leans forward, hands resting on his umbrella. "You have questions, John."

"Well, yes."

"About the case."

"Yes."

A pause.

"Are you going to ask me?" Mycroft's tone carries an undertow of disappointment with it, as if there was an important test hidden somewhere in the short conversation, a landmine John failed to trigger, and it was a personal inconvenience and altogether great trial for Mycroft to stoop to the level of dragging the questions out of him.

"Yes- no- give us a moment to think!" John snaps, turning towards him in frustration – a bad move, he realizes belatedly, as Mycroft now has perfect view of his facial expressions. Not, of course, that he needed them to read John's emotions, but it really is just the principle of the thing. Mycroft smiles and leans back into the seat.

"Of course, John. Please, take all the time you think is necessary." Somehow, even the pauses between the words seem dripping with pity for John's poor, pathetic, not-quite-as-fast-as-the-Holmes' mind. John sighs resignedly and leans back into his own seat.

"Who are they?" He asks quietly.

"Those who would have certain things known." Mycroft answers. It is, John reflects, one of the most bogus answers he's ever been given, but Mycroft seems to have attached a special sort of importance to it – the tone used is reminiscent of his memorable, "I worry about him." John breathes, reminds himself that Mycroft does not judge him on brain power, and takes a stab in the dark.

"These things – they wouldn't happen to be about you, would they?" A flicker of emotion – surprise, perhaps? – flickers across Mycroft's face. John wonders if he should be insulted.

"Perhaps." Mycroft shifts in his seat.

"How – no." John bites off his question, frustrated. What to ask? How to ask, so that Mycroft doesn't see right through him? What would get him the right answers? It's worse than dealing with Sherlock; Mycroft is a Chinese puzzle box, and John hasn't the first clue where to begin.

"It might be quicker," Mycroft interrupts his internal musings, "if I just told you what you wanted to know."

"Yes. Yes, it would be." John crosses his arms; defeat in whatever game he's playing at with Mycroft is inadmissible, but really the only option.

"Well, then," Mycroft starts, "you should know that he has all the evidence he needs."

John's head whips up from its position, chin previously digging into his sternum, and he stares at the too-calm man sitting next to him. "What?" Mycroft's face takes on a slightly pained expression as he responds,

"Sherlock has all the evidence he needs."

"All the evidence – but then why is he still working on the case? What— if he's solved it already—"

"He has the evidence, John," and Mycroft leans forward, controlled emotion broiling under the surface of his skin, "he just doesn't _believe_ it."

"But it's evidence," John states, nonplussed. "He's the one all about logic and deduction and such. He can't just not believe evidence."

"Really?" Mycroft tilts the umbrella staff in his hand, arches his left eyebrow.

"It's _Sherlock_," John repeats, frustrated. "He can't just choose to _not believe_ it."

"Even if it's about someone for whom he once cared?" John glances over, but Mycroft is looking out the window.

"What did you do, Mycroft?" he asks quietly. Mycroft sighs, looks at him. His eyes are hard, emotionless, but at just the edges, a bit of – well, _something_ – is breaking through.

"Nothing too worrisome," he answers briskly. "Though Sherlock – might not see it that way."

A small hand lands on the slightly larger one twisting the umbrella by its handle. Mycroft looks at the person to whom it is attached, frowning slightly.

"Whatever it is, Mycroft," John holds his gaze, not an easy feat, "I'm sure you had your reasons."

Mycroft smiles slightly. The car pulls up to 221B Baker, and John gets out, cheeks reddening in the cold. A voice, cultured, tempered, follows him out into the chill air.

"I was not wrong about you, Doctor Watson."

John turns on the steps. "Yes?"

Mycroft swallows, and seems to actually put effort into his words – all a show, John is sure, but he's touched by the gesture. "You are, indeed, a remarkable man."

John blinks. Before he has the chance to say anything, the car door slams, and Mycroft is whisked away to whatever meeting next holds the attention of the world's most powerful men. John sighs and leans against the door.

And promptly falls back and into the house, as the door is yanked open by one angry consulting detective.

"Sherlock!" he wheezes, on his back, wind knocked out of him.

"John," Sherlock returns, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Where have you been?"

"Out," he snaps, struggling to get up quite ungracefully. "Give me a hand, would you?" Sherlock looks down at him, as if only now noticing the fact that there is an ex-army doctor sprawled over his doorstep.

"You went to see Mycroft." There's no question, no hint of debate; he states it as a simple fact, obvious from – whatever it is that makes frankly unknowable facts obvious to Holmeses. John surges to his feet and brushes himself off.

"Yes, I did." He's defensive now, for some reason, as Sherlock's eyes rake over him, analyzing every inch, every particle, every neutron and proton and electron that could possibly be classified as "belonging to or being part of John H. Watson, M.D." Sherlock frowns again, a quick sideways twist of the lips, and John braces himself.

"Why?"

"You don't know?" John's eyebrows shoot up. Sherlock straightens his coat, pointedly not meeting John's gaze.

"Sherlock, you're driving me insane. It's- well, it's worse than normal, that's what it is."

"Oh." A flicker of emotion, a helpless spasm from muscles almost perfectly trained to _not-react-not-react-not-react-don't_, flits across his face; then the waters calm, and Sherlock remains as inscrutable as ever. He tries to brush by, but John grabs his arm.

"I don't mind any of it, mind; I'm just worried about you." He speaks soft and low, the voice Sherlock responds to best, he's noticed (he does both see and observe, sometimes), gaze trained on the other man's uncomfortably shifting eyes.

"There's no need to be, John, I'm not a child," he responds, eyes darting, flitting about, anywhere but at John. He rearranges his coat on his scarecrow-thin body and adds, "I can take care of myself."

_No, you can't_, John thinks, but says aloud, "Where are you going?"

"To think. Too loud in there," a hand flaps in the direction of the door.

"Need someone to talk to?" In response, Sherlock holds up his other hand. The skull grins at John, hateful and smug and definitely too macabre for the mood Sherlock's currently in, he thinks. But before he can say anything else, Sherlock's past him, headed out into London, searching for answers with skulls. John feels the pull, the drive, the almost unquenchable urge to follow after Sherlock, but resolutely walks up the stairs, makes himself a cup of tea, and flips on the telly. Sherlock's got his skull, after all; no use for an ex-army doctor with an imaginary wound and a wooden heart.

o.O.o

A/N: I. Own. Nothing. Got that? Good. No BBC Sherlock, none of the marvelous writers, none of the splendid actors. Not even a Canadian. Dagnab, man.

You guys, I am So Very Sorry for the amount of time this update took. I won't go into the reasons, but there were many. Please please please forgive me? I promise, the next one won't be such a long wait! I finally found a plot with which I was happy, so I actually know where I'm going with this now (YAYS). I should warn you, though; there's probably two more chapters and an epilogue. The epilogue will contain Note-ness, but the other two probably won't. Sorry, guys!

As always, reviews are ridiculously welcome, thanks for reading and sticking with me, and much, much love to you all!


	10. The Definition of Necessity

When the shiny, ostentatious, and completely unnecessary black car pulls up next to him, Sherlock can't exactly say he's not expecting it. He ignores it, in the midst of conducting an intense conversation with the skull (mainly consisting of him muttering "Why?" and "How?" but, well, no one's to know if the genius doesn't feel like talking out _all _the minor details in his thoughts with the skull). The car seems content to follow him for a bit.

Then another car appears. Sherlock glances at it, surreptitiously looking for the thick bulk of his brother in the back seat of either, but the tinted windows make the task impossible. Yet another car appears, same brand, year, make, model; they converge at a street corner, then as one, turn to follow him. He ducks down an indistinct side alley, grumbling under his breath as to the ludicrous thought processes of his brother, and freezes; there, in the alley, a desk and two chairs are waiting. Mycroft, seated behind the desk, smiles pleasantly and beckons him to sit down.

"Sherlock." All warmth, pleasantness; a politician's voice, perfect for soothing and any manipulation necessary.

"Mycroft." Cold, quiet, laced with just a thread of anger.

"Come now, Sherlock; sit down. We can discuss this civilly, can't we?"Sherlock stares at him, the politely beseeching eyes, the outstretched hand, all an act, all an _act_; had it ever not been an act? With a herculean effort, he resists the temptation to throw the skull at Mycroft.

"Why?"Mycroft's brow furrows.

"Why what?"

_Why did you leave me? Why did you change? _"Why did you do it?"

"Sherlock, be clear, please." Chastising notes weave through the sounds, until it's all Sherlock can hear.

"Fine. Fine." He stalks up to Mycroft, coat flaring comfortingly around him, places the skull on the unoccupied chair, slams his hands down on the desk. "Why," he grits out, "did you kill those people?"

"It was necessary."

"Necessary." Sherlock pulls back, tastes the word on his lips, finds he doesn't like it all that much. Not when it's someone else's excuse. Mycroft nods.

"Necessary."

"No."Mycroft tilts his head, just a little.

"No?" Sherlock has often wondered what possessed people to parrot words back and forth; now, as he stares at his complacently smiling brother, he recognizes the act for what it is; an attempt to keep anyone from getting any information. Ever. It seems to be working splendidly, in this case.

"You are you. If you had wanted to, you could have gotten out of it. Ergo, it was your choice. So why?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice turns low, soft, soothing. "I was young. I made mistakes."Sherlock leans in.

"You. Don't. Make. Mistakes." He makes sure to enunciate clearly, so as to have no confusion.

"Not now," Mycroft shifts back in his chair. "Then…"

"What mistake?" Mycroft looks up."You want me to believe you made a mistake, you're going to have to tell me what it is. How could they force you-?" Mycroft is shaking his head.

"You don't know?"

"Would I be asking if I did?" Sherlock snaps, churlish. Mycroft begins to laugh - not the cultured, soft, quiet laugh Sherlock is used to, but a big, raucous laugh that burbles up in Mycroft's chest and tumbles out of his mouth, head over heels, roaring, loud, violent laughter. Mycroft hasn't laughed like this since… Sherlock doesn't allow himself to remember the last time he's heard this laugh. He does, however, wonder off-handedly who will take over Mycroft's position in the government, as his brother appears to have, to put it colloquially, "lost his marbles".

"Sherlock," Mycroft wheezes between trailing giggles, "Sherlock." Again, the feeling of missing something, something _obvious_ and _right in front of him_, overtakes Sherlock. He sits down, avoiding the skull, too confused and worn-out to pretend to be anything but.

"It was you." Sherlock lifts his head. _What?_"I told someone about you. That person, of course, didn't matter," Mycroft lowers his chin, refuses to meet Sherlock's eyes. "But the person who overheard it did."

_…oh. _Mycroft spells it out for him, ever looking to seem the kind, superior older brother. "It was you or them. I picked you."Sherlock stands, grabs the skull. Looks toward the road, then back at Mycroft.

"This changes nothing, you know."Mycroft nods, playing serious with his younger brother.

"Of course."

"And the others?"

"What others?"

"How did they get that information? How did they know?"

Mycroft smiles. "If you can't figure that out, little brother, you're quite a sad excuse for a consulting detective."

"The _only_ consulting detective."

"Which only makes it all the more sad." He shuffles a few papers around on his desk. "I have every confidence you'll figure it out, Sherlock," he says. "You always did have a knack for nosing out other's secrets."

"And..." _why didn't you tell me?_

Mycroft sighs. "You were young, Sherlock, and-"

"So were you."

"I don't have to explain my actions to you." Ever the older brother, looking for the superiority in the conversation. Sherlock glares at him. Mycroft's gaze softens. "However... I didn't want you getting hurt. The people who threatened you were... powerful, surely you've realized that by now. Distancing myself was the only way I could see to keep you safe." His voice drops lower. "I do... regret it, Sherlock."

Sherlock stares at his brother, flummoxed. Mycroft doesn't apologize, not unless it's part of a game. Which... No. Mycroft is Mycroft, playing his games. Of course.

"Fine." Sherlock flaps his coat, unsure, taking comfort in the feel of the warm material around him.

"Fine." Neither move from their positions. After a moment, Mycroft shifts forward in his chair.

"Now, if that's all, I do have other things-"

"Of course," Sherlock interrupts hastily.

"The car will take you anywhere you wish."

"No, I think I'd rather walk, actually."

"Must you be so stubborn?"And with that, they fall back into the natural give-and-take of their skewed relationship. Mycroft grins, really grins; Sherlock offers a small, hesitant half-smile in return, then abruptly turns and walks out of the alleyway, coat flaring about him as he does.

A small piece of paper falls from his pocket.

Mycroft walks over to it and stares down for a few seconds. He bends down, picks it up, turns it over.

He smiles.

o.O.o

A/N: And with that, we have reached the climax of the story! There will be two more chapters (one of which is solely devoted to the Note- I'm excited!). One of the shortest chapters in this thing, and... honestly, I'm very unsure of it. I hope it lived up to your expectations! (Please tell me if it didn't, too! I know I was vague as to what Mycroft did, but isn't that what they would do? Be very vague in talking about it? I feel that's just their style, talking in code. GAH! Nerves.) As always, I own nothing BBC- or Sherlock- related. Reviews and comments are lovely, and thank y'all for sticking with me throughout this crazy ride!


	11. By Fire and Water

Disclaimer: Just to clarify: BBC Sherlock is not mine in any way, shape, or form. Many of the quotations used in this fanwork are direct quotations from the characters, and I do not in any way take credit for these lines. Such quotations are denotated by an asterisk (*) after the end of the quotation (quotations, as usual, denotated by "…"). This is not an original plotline, just my interpretation of the BBC's plotline from another point of view. I am not taking credit for any of the characters, any of the marked dialogue, or any of the plotline being my own; I am simply putting a bit of my own spin on it by telling it from the point of a sentient Note pinned to the pocket of a character. Just to repeat: the characters, plotline, and much of the dialogue used in this sequence are directly from BBC Sherlock, and all credit goes to them for their brilliant re-working of the ACD canon. I claim nothing but a Post-In Note. (Can you tell I'm a bit paranoid about this?)

o.O.o

Cold.

His eyes, cold, so very cold, stare through the paper, burning at its papery heart's essence. Jim Moriarty smiles, and the Note trembles.

It's the shark eyes that fascinate the Note. He's never seen eyes like that before: cold, dead, unfeeling. Not even the hint of life lies within the dark, depthless irises, and as Jim Moriarty smiles, the Note learns the true meaning of the word "fear". Cold fingers trace the inked lettering, lingering over the words, every letter, reading what Sherlock refused to, so much more than words, the story of a life, of a love so expressly forbidden by the inhabiting soul that it imbued a piece of paper with its terror, sheer terror at the idea of love.

I WANT JOHN.

I NEED JOHN.

Jim traces it again, over and over. The repetitious action seems strangely cathartic to him; the Note pushes down the urge to vomit ink with every caress of the Cold Man's very cold fingers.

"Well, well," the Cold Man murmurs finally. "Well, my dear." He traces the word "JOHN" again, stills his finger on the last upstroke of the "N". "What shall we do with you?"

The Note, still as only insentient paper can be before, stills further. It knows, somehow, that tricks and bluffing will not work on this Cold Man. The Cold Man hums, a soft, lilting little ditty as he stares at the paper, the offending words.

He picks the Note up. Grins, a maniacal gleam in his eye, the first spark of what the Note's come to know as "human" that he's seen in the Cold Man.

"I think I know just what to do with _you_," he giggles, the sound shockingly innocent; a child's giggle, high and sweet and clear. The Note is terrified but still in full control of its somewhat incredible (given that it is, in fact, paper) mental capacities, and so gathers all the electrical charge it can muster and shocks the Cold Man, who drops it in surprise. The Note falls down to the floor, landing quietly next to a stack of papers. No luck; the Cold Man grabs him.

"Ah ah ah," he coos. "That was clever, very clever, dear, but I'm afraid you're not going to get away from me that easily." Note now gripped firmly in hand, he turns and heads towards -

No.

No, no, no!

The Note struggles, panics, uses every natural law of physics that comes to his mind to escape the grip of the Cold Man. Useless; the Cold Man's grip is as solid as ever. The fire looms closer with every step.

The grip releases.

A thin, papery cry.

Silence.

The fire licks at the Note's sides, tasting, curious, a sated beast for the moment. The Note breathes a sigh of relief. Then the fire takes hold, bursts into flame on its body, ink bubbling on the surface, pain, pain, pain-

Tongs.

A firm grip.

Cold, dead eyes, cold, high voice giggling.

The Note slides into unconsciousness.

o.O.o

There is a car. The Note is woozy, still somewhat in pain, but it's alert enough to notice that. And – the John-man! The Note cries out, tries to fall, to get closer, but is pinned in place to the pocket of the Cold Man.

The Cold Man giggles again, talks excitedly to the John-man about something, a surprise for the Creator, apparently. The faint scent of smoke tinges the air. The John-man glares at the Cold Man. The Cold Man strokes the John-man's cheek tenderly, promises him that soon, soon this will all be over, the John-man will be no more than a false memory to the Creator. The Cold Man says he has the power to manipulate the Creator's mind, make him believe the John-Man was merely a figment of the Creator's imagination. The Note tilts himself up as far as he can, trying to see the Cold Man's face; it believes him. The John-man says nothing.

The Cold Man puts the John-man in a coat full of something that smells bad and funny and not-right at all. (The Note prefers the John-man's normal smell, but that doesn't really matter to any sentient being at the moment, except perhaps the John-man, who is of the same opinion.) He places something in his ear; the Note is confused by this. The scent of chlorine drives the lingering smell of burned paper from the Note; it's not sure if the change can be considered an improvement. Then the John-man goes elsewhere to wait (for the Creator, the Note gathers from the men's conversation).

The Cold Man strokes the Note in his pocket absent-mindedly as they wait behind the closed door.

"Nearly midnight," he says to the empty hallway. Smiles; feline, full-lipped. Dangerous.

The clock strikes the first bell. A door opens, closes. The Cold Man presses a button on a bit of machinery fastened to the other lapel.

"Well then," the Cold Man says, excitement obvious in his voice. "Time to begin."

o.O.o

The Cold Man stares at the screen in front of him, as the Creator moves – quickly, he's excited, thrilled by the game. He doesn't know the John-man is missing yet, obviously. The Note feels a raging, red-hot surge of hatred for the Creator as the Cold Man claps his hands in glee.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present,"* the Creator says on-screen, holding up something very small, unclear on the screen what it is. The Cold Man seems to know, however; he sighs, blows a raspberry at the screen. "Obvious," he mutters, rolling his eyes. Something clicks, and a voice crackles through the earpiece. The Note is close enough to hear someone say,

"Everything alright?"

"Yes, Moran," the Cold Man snaps, glaring at nothing in particular. "Now do your job, and do nothing unless I tell you, unless you want to be my next suit. I hear English ex-sniper is very fashionable in Milan these days."

A puff of laughter. "Yes, alright, don't get your knickers in a twist," the voice continues, clearly amused.

"_What did I just say?_" The voice reverberates from within the tiny hallway. Silence from the talking thingamajig.

"That's better," the Cold Man breathes, turning his attention to the screen once again. The Creator's been talking; the Note doubts whether the Cold Man's heard any of it. No matter, really; just the Creator speculating anyways. Both of the men like the sound of their own voice a little too much, the Note ponders, then shudders. To compare the Cold Man to the Creator, it's…

"Go," the Cold Man says, eyes lit up in glee. Onscreen, a door is heard, opening, closing. The John-man appears, wrapped in a warm fur coat. The Creator turns toward the sound.

They stare at each other, the Creator and the John-man. The Note is struck, even with the blurry imagery on-screen, by how child-like the Creator looks; surprised, unbelieving. Hurt. The Cold Man growls and presses a button.

"Now, John, greet our guest. It's only polite," he coos into the lapel-microphone.

"Evening,"* the John-man on-screen says, voice hitching a little.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"* The Cold Man races over his words in the attempt to get them out as fast as possible. The John-man hesitates, then complies.

"John,"* the Creator breathes.

The Cold Man states, voice trembling with glee, "Bet you never saw this coming."*

"What the hell-"* the Creator begins, but the John-man interrupts him with the Cold Man's words.

"Now open your jacket," the Cold Man orders, voice high and uncontrolled. The Note glances up. Manic eyes flit over the screen, taking in every detail, every nuance of the two men's expressions.

"What would you like me to make him say next?"*

The John-man does as he's told. Lumpy packages, lights and wires and things the Note doesn't understand but knows are badbad_bad _hang inside the jacket. The Creator walks toward him, glancing around for the source. Inside the hallway, the Cold Man giggles and claps his hands.

"Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' geer."* The John-man's voice breaks on the third repetition.

"Stop it,"* the Creator says, and the Cold Man smiles.

"Nice touch, this; the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him,"* the Cold Man's face draws into a blank mask. "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."*

"Who are you?"* The Creator on-screen demands, looking around, everywhere but the hallway. _Here_, the Note thinks as loud as it can. _Here, over here!_

The Cold Man smiles, stands. "Showtime," he announces to no one in particular, and swings the door open.

"I gave you my number,"* he calls. "I thought you might call."* Teasing, still; just playing the game. The Note wishes it could shout at the both of them to run, _run_ while there's still time, but no, the Creator won't go anywhere with his John-man in danger.

The Cold Man moves out into the open, where the Creator can see him. "Is that a British Army L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"* The Creator reaches behind him, aims the gun at the Cold Man's head.

"Both,"* he replies, suddenly calm and collected. The Note hates him for it, hates that he can be that way, ignore that the John-man, his John-man is in danger. The Cold Man smiles, barely a twist of the lips.

They play a bit, dabble. The vocal parries and slashes fly through the air, thick as bees in a meadow on a hot summer's day. They dance and whirl, twisting through, under, in, with each other's words, compliments and threats and warnings intermingling in the dense, chlorinated air.

Then the John-man runs up behind the Cold Man, grabs him by the throat, shouts, "Sherlock, run!"* The Note feels his arm graze its edges, wants to cling, wants to grab on and never let go of the John-man, but the pin holds his burned, frayed, fragile edges in place. The Creator doesn't move, surprised, unsure again, but unwilling to leave the John-Man. The laser-sights move to Sherlock, and the John-man backs away, defeated.

"If you don't stop prying,"* the Cold Man says, "I will burn you."* The Note feels the echoes of the fire racing through its fibers and shudders. "I will burn _the heart_ out of you."* And the Note, for the first time, is terrified for the Creator, wants to tell him to run, to get away, save himself, because the memory of the fire is still licking at its edges, and it's biting back the urge to scream again, to scream—

"Well,"* the Cold Man shrugs, and the motion snaps the Note back to reality. He plays about a bit more, says his goodbyes and leaves, the door swinging behind him with a slow, solemn finality. Once inside, the Cold Man moves immediately to another screen to view the happenings inside the pool-room. On-screen, the Creator tears the jacket off the John-man, swinging it across the floor, as far away from them as possible. His voice is rough when he asks if the John-man is alright. The two men on-screen begin to recover from the shock, nervous laughter echoing in the damp pool-room. The Cold Man's dead eyes are burning, his lips set in a thin line. He grins, suddenly, and strides towards the door again. The Note tries to slide further down into the jacket pocket, suddenly afraid of what might happen, afraid of seeing it, of hearing the John-man's screams, of witnessing the Creator's grief.

The Cold Man presses the door open, calls out an apology in what the Note recognizes as an opposite-of-apologetic voice. The words press on, flowing over the men, none of them paying attention to the actual wording. They're all a bit more focused on the bomb in front of them, at which the Creator has pointed a gun. The Note personally thinks this decision very wise on all of their parts.

Then.

Then.

Then.

A song starts to play, one of the John-man's favorites. The Note's heard it a thousand times in the flat if he's heard it once, the John-man's slightly off-key voice blending in with the recorded vocals, warm and mellow and homey and happy. It seems a parody, a taunting of that domesticity the Note remembers so vividly in this moment, as the lyrics bounce off the walls and pool tile.

The Cold Man groans, takes the call. He listens; his voice, demeanor changes. The Note knows now, is relieved; the Creator and John-man are not going to die today. Something else has caught the Cold Man's shark's eye, and he will not let go until it, too, is as dead as he is. The Note is sure of it.

The Cold Man walks out, still on the phone. The Note glances longingly back at the swinging pool doors; its fate is not to be with the John-man and the Creator, then. A pity, too; he was beginning to like the Creator.

The pin falls out, pulled by the hand of the Cold Man.

Dead eyes smile at the Note. Cold hands release it.

It falls to the ground.

"It seems everything gets a little mercy today," the Cold Man murmurs as he steps around it.

Moments later, the Creator and the John-man burst through the door, Creator's gun cocked, eyes frantically darting everywhere. The Creator's glance lights on the note, nearly unrecognizable from the burn marks and puncture wounds. The first line is still legible:

I WANT JOHN.

The Creator crouches down, picks it up, gaze still darting about for any sign of motion.

"Sherlock?" The John-man's voice is questioning; unsure. Wary. He's standing guard at the door, ready to jump into action at the slightest provocation, adrenaline still thrumming through his veins. (The Note, safe in the Creator's hand, does not envy the John-man or the Creator their inevitable adrenaline crashes.)

"Nothing, John," the Creator replies, shoving the Note in his pocket (no more gentle than normal, the Note notes with a faint crinkle of displeasure) and standing to face the John-man. "He's not here." He strides towards the door. "Come on, then; let's go home." The John-man follows him out the door, into the dimly lit streets of London.

o.O.o

A/N: And there it is! All wrapped up. (Thank goodness!) I've been worrying about this last chapter forever, it seems. Also, this wasn't explained, but the Note was stolen by Seb from Mycroft the night Mycroft got it; a little gift from the doting boyfriend, a reminder of Jim's obsession. (Yes, I ship them, too. Sort of. I love Seb. He's so boss.) I decided to follow the story of the Note, but if you'd like to see what happened with Mycroft, just let me know! Thank you for being there for me and encouraging me in this very long and arduous (yes, 20k+ is long and arduous for me) journey! I've had tons of fun, and I hope you have as well. Thanks for reading, staying with me til the end and all; please tell me what you thought of it! -L


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